


you were only waiting for this moment to arise

by jilyandbambi



Series: The Rage Quit AU [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin's Terrible Childhood in Slavery™, Coping, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Illness, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Slavery, Trauma, minor character death (canon compliant)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9757361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jilyandbambi/pseuds/jilyandbambi
Summary: Anakin doesn't slaughter the Tuskens, Obi-Wan doesn't get captured at Geonosis, and the War doesn't break out when it does, as a result. Now, with some actual time to grieve his mother's loss, Anakin's life may take a turn for the better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. First of all, this fic and the one(s) that (hopefully) follow would be nothing, Nothing NOTHING without Redrikki talking me through all the plot heavy thinky-thinky stuff. I really just wanted to write a fic where Anakin RageQuits the Order, but as I was sketching out the plot I realized I knew next to nothing about GFFA politics. So THANK YOU Rikki, for talking everything out with me. This story would have never gotten off the ground without you taking literal HOURS out of your day all those months ago to help me. I really, really appreciate all of your advice and feedback. 
> 
> 2\. I would have abandoned this story A LONG TIME AGO, if not for Jerseydevious talking me through all my random bouts of self-hatred. 'Cause lemme tell ya, gang, this fic put me through the RINGER. Every section of it led to weeks and weeks of writer's block. You wanna know why you haven't gotten a WSABH update in 5 months and counting? THis thing right here!! You wanna know why I'm still here? Writing fic? Instead of a pile of flesh and goo after having thrown myself off of a building? Jerseydevious. Thank you so much JD for not only talking me down off the ledge, but also proofreading/editing/proofreading again. Every time I needed you to read over something for me, you were right there, and I couldn't have gotten this far without you. Thank you so so so much! 
> 
> 3\. TheMooseJTHM is the reason I'm posting this fic right now, in its half-done state. Originally, this was going to be a really long oneshot, but I felt bad that I'm not going to have the second chapter of the first story in the Ward of Naboo series done for y'all tonight, and I wanted to get something up to redeem myself. But this is all I have. So if you hate it, Michi's fault. Consequently, if you love it, thank her, because this would still be rotting away on my hard drive if not for her encouragement. Thanks, Mich, for telling me to take the plunge! I always appreciate all of your kind words so very much. 
> 
> 4\. The actual Rage!Quit ain't in this Chapter. This is all just the build up, folks, sorry. Stay tuned.

Anakin isn’t here.

He’s in the auction pavilion, clinging so tightly to Momma’s leg the auctioneer’s assistant has to choke him out to get him to let go. Anakin’s airway burns in the man’s steel grip, but that doesn’t stop him from screaming bloody murder for his Momma as she is dragged off to the platform, and he is thrown by the scruff of his neck into a pen with the rest of the children. His turn comes sometime later, and by pure stroke of luck, Momma’s new owner buys him too. He goes through several pairs of arms before he reaches hers’ again; by which point, they’re both sobbing from having come within a hair’s breadth of losing each other forever. Anakin burrows his face in Momma’s neck and promises her that he’ll never let anyone do that to them ever again. Momma doesn’t say it, but Anakin knows she doesn’t believe him. That’s okay. He’ll prove it to her.

Anakin isn’t here.

He’s sitting on the floor in the middle of Gardulla’s kitchen. Momma’s head pillowed in his lap, her left eye swollen and bleeding after the head cook bashed her across the face with a glass serving spoon for feeding Anakin pallie rinds; knocking her to the floor in a dazed, half-conscious heap. The other kitchen slaves shake their heads and continue about their work, bustling around Anakin and Momma as though they’d suddenly gone invisible. Anakin knows it’s wrong. He knows he shouldn’t. Knows, just as well as the rest of them do, that if Gardulla’s dinner isn’t served on time, it’ll cost the lot of them more than just an eye. But secretly, as he mops at the blood around Momma’s drooping socket, he _hates_ the other slaves for their indifference. Momma always says the problem with the galaxy is that no one helps each other, and Anakin knows in his heart that if it had been any one of them laid out on the floor instead of her, she’d have stopped whatever it was she was doing to help them. No question. Because Momma’s the best person he knows. Way too good for this place. Anakin has got to get them out. Somehow.

Anakin isn’t here.

He’s falling into Mom’s arms, too wrung out to take even one more step. It’s well past nightfall, and he’s only just now getting home. The shop hasn’t been doing so good lately so Watto’s been having him pick up the slack. Tears are streak down Mom’s cheeks as she gathers him up and covers his sweat-damp face in kisses, crying “ _thank you, Ani. Thank you.”_ for coming home to her, safe and sound and in one piece. Anakin hugs her back and tells her for the millionth time that once he’s built his scanner, they’re gonna beat it off of this sand pit and explore every single planet in the galaxy together. Mom chokes on a sob and holds him tighter.

Anakin isn’t here.

He’s walking away from Mom, and toward Master Qui-Gon—toward his “destiny”—as slowly as he possibly can without being obvious. Anakin still isn’t sure this is right; leaving Mom behind to go off and have some grand adventure. Abandoning her to whatever fate awaits her without him here for protection. A huge part of him wants to run back again and throw himself into Mom’s arms and _demand_ that Master Qui-Gon take her too if he wants Anakin to be a Jedi so bad. But experience has taught him how kindly Masters take to demands. Anakin knows his place. Besides, he can feel how much Mom wants him to go. That getting left behind doesn’t matter to her one bit if it means Anakin gets away from this place. He feels so silly. All this time and he never realized that for as long as he’s been making plans for their escape, Mom’s been doing the same thing for him. He’s doubly guilty, now. He really can’t leave her here. He’s gotta come back for her once he’s strong enough. He’s just _gotta_ …

Anakin isn’t here.

He isn’t here.

He isn’t here.

He isn’t here.

He isn’t here.

And neither is Mom.

He kept his promise. He came back to get her a long time ago and brought her to live with him in the Core. She has a real home now. With a garden full of flowers and fruits and vegetables that they don’t have to tend for anyone except themselves; but that they share with friends and neighbors and anyone who asks because this bounty _belongs_ _to_ _them_ , and they are _free_ to share it with whomever they choose. At night they cook dinner together and no one punishes them for eating the leftover scraps they decide not to use in the stew. Mom gets to choose the work she does now, and she’d cried tears of utter disbelief when she held her first paycheck in her hand. They’d framed it, and put it on the wall of the living room of the home that Anakin bought for her. That they own. That no one can force them from because _they_ _own it._ It’s here she will live, and it’s here she will one day die. Safe and cared for and Free, with the son who would have died before forsaking her.

Not here. Not broken and blood-soaked in the Tusken’s abandoned Sithpit. Not this place. Not like this.

“Ani…” Mom croaks, low and reedy. Her voice long since screamed past raw. “My Ani…”

Her hand, bloodied and tellingly crooked comes up to rest against his cheek. Anakin takes it in his own, carefully so as not to make it worse.

“My Ani…My grown up son…”

_No. Not here. Not like this. Please, Momma. There’s still time. I’ve got to save you!_

Mom’s bony frame rattles with every word she struggles past her lips. Anakin wants to tell her to stop. To save her energy until he can get her back to the Lars’ homestead. But it’s been so long since he’s heard her voice. And he might never…No. _No!_

_Not here, Momma. Not here. Please…_

“I’m so proud…”

Proud? Proud of what? What has he done? What has he accomplished in all these years, if this is what he left his own mother to?

“Now, I am complete…”

Her hands are rough and clammy against his cheek. Her body’s warmth drained away with most of her blood. The once bright beacon of her life now faded to a barely visible speck in the Force. Then, right before Anakin’s eyes, it disappears completely, as if the universe had merely blinked.

“I…love…”

A final, pained wheeze creaks past Mom’s lips, and she leaves on it. Gone. Just like that.

It’s all Anakin can do to crush her to him and beg her to take him with her.

_Not here…not here, Momma…not here…not here…_

 

* * *

 

 

The thing is, Padmé actually remembered Shmi Skywalker.

The phrasing may be a bit callous, but it’s just the nature of her work. She meets a lot of people. She sees a lot of faces. She learns a lot of names. And she’s had many a meaningful encounter with people whose names and faces and individual histories she has then promptly forgotten the details of. But as the indelible memory of Anakin Skywalker has stayed with her through all these years, so too has his mother.

Oh yes, Padmé remembered Shmi. Effortlessly kind, yet undoubtedly worn, with a giving smile and warm eyes that vivified a face battered by decades of hardship. Gentle Shmi, who had gone out of her way to offer outsiders food and shelter when she’d had so little for just herself and her son.

Whenever Padmé thought back to that episode at the beginning of her career, she’d always felt regret at having had to leave Shmi behind in squalor and had often wondered what had become of the woman; whether any Jedi had ever seen fit to return to Tatooine to free the mother of their Chosen One. She had her answer now, and the revelation made her want to crawl out of her skin.

They find Shmi hanging by her wrists under a ramshackle lean-to at the edge of the Tusken’s abandoned camp. Starved and half-flayed; strung up like some perverse offering to whatever debauched gods these Sand Demons worshiped. She’s still alive, but only just. Padmé didn't need a connection to the living Force to know that there was nothing she and Anakin could do for the poor woman at this point. And so she could do nothing but watch from a respectful distance as Anakin freed his mother from her bonds, and lowered her to the ground. Watch as he cradled her broken body in his arms, and begged her not to leave him. Not now, when he’d only just gotten her back.

Watch, and marvel at how incredibly arrogant she had been for demanding to come along with him on this doomed rescue mission in the first place. What was it she had she thought she could do here, again? With her little blaster and her basic first aid certification. She'd bristled when Anakin had told her she was underprepared for what they’d be dealing with. But as it turns out, he’d been right. Padmé had no idea how to handle this.

She was too far away to hear Shmi take her final breath, but she knew the minute the woman was gone when she heard that strangled wail tear through the murky desert night and saw Anakin crush his mother to him, his face frozen in a muted shriek of abject devastation.

Padmé should do something. She knew she should be doing something. She should go over there and do something. Say something. Anything. But her legs were refusing to budge, leaving her rooted in place. It was just as well. She had no idea what she could possibly do for Anakin right now.

There were words one is expected to say to the grief-stricken at times such as these. I’m so sorry for your loss. Everything happens for a reason. This too shall pass. Padmé has offered every one of these empty clichés to the loved ones of deceased colleagues and acquaintances over the years, without ever sparing them a second thought. But given everything that’s between Padmé and the Skywalkers; everything Anakin did for her and Naboo and everything Shmi did for her before that; and given how Padmé repaid their kindness, they both deserve more from her than hollow platitudes. There had to be something else she can say that won’t come across as trite or meaningless.

Her feet start moving before she can come up with anything, and before Padmé can realize where she’s headed, she’s standing over Anakin, who is still hunched over and weeping. His mother’s body clutched tightly to his chest. He doesn’t react at all when she kneels down in the sand beside him. At least not at first.

Still out of her depth, Padmé let instinct take over. Tentatively, her hand stretched out to rest lightly on the back of Anakin’s neck, her fingers curling into the soft tufts of hair at his nape, brushing them up from sweat-damp skin. Anakin stiffens at the contact, his breath hitching in his throat. Padmé takes her hand back and makes to move away to give him back his space. But then he looked up and caught her eyes, freezing her with his helpless, teary-eyed stare. Locked in place, Padmé stared back.

Anakin's face was a wet, splotchy mess, his cheeks and nose flushed red. Tears he hadn't bothered to wipe away have left dusty streaks trailing down his sand swept face. A thick glob of mucous was bubbling its way out of his left nostril as Anakin snuffed it up in a watery breath, leaving his mouth hanging open and empty in a silent, grasping plea.

Never let it be said that grief is like what they show on holodramas, clean and stylized and transcendent. It isn't.

It's a raw, inglorious ache. The sob stuck in your throat. The scream that will never be loud enough. The deep, festering wound that will dog you for the rest of your life; biting and relentless in its reminder of what you've lost. It's the expression carved into Anakin's face for her alone to see.

He keeps doing this. Laying himself bare at her feet, and expecting her to know what to do with him. It's humbling and endearing and maddening all at once. It makes Padmé want to either run away as fast as she can, or cling to him, hard and fast until they meld into one being. If there was ever a time for her to choose her fate, now would be it. No time like the present.

With a solemn nod, Padmé moves back over toward him. Wrapping an arm around him and guiding him flush against her, she placed her hand back where it had been before and resumed her ministrations.

 

* * *

 

“Been waiting to here from you, we have, Obi-Wan.”

“My apologies, Masters. I encountered some difficulty while tracking the bounty hunter from Kamino. My long-range transmitter ended up getting knocked out, and I had to wait until I was back in range before I could contact you.”

“And it took you over a standard week’s time to find your way back to the Core?” Master Kolar probed.

“As I said, I encountered difficulty. I tracked the bounty hunter Jango Fett from Kamino to the droid foundries on Geonosis. While there, I was nearly captured by Count Dooku’s forces. I managed to escape, but had to spend some time hopping between systems in the Arkanis sector in order to shake off my pursuers.”

“Very well, Obi-Wan,” said Master Windu. “Proceed with your report.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Obi-Wan. “While on Geonosis, I discovered that they are producing a droid army at the behest of the Trade Federation, who have agreed to enter into an alliance with Count Dooku, should he ensure Senator Amidala’s assassination. I believe it was Nute Gunray specifically, who ordered the hit on the Senator. The Commerce Guilds and the Corporate Alliance have also pledged their armies to the Count’s service. He believes that with the support of the Trade Federation and their allies, The Confederacy of Independent Systems may have a chance at swaying another ten thousand systems to their cause.”

The transmissions’ feedback crackled as the members Council broke out into troubled murmurings amongst themselves.

“Done well, you have, Obi-Wan,” Yoda said over the din. “Relay these findings to the Chancellor, we will.”

The rumbling died down, and Master Windu asked, “What of the bounty hunter?”

Obi-Wan bowed his head. “I encountered Jango Fett on Arkanis. He engaged me in a fight, which I entered with the intent of taking him alive to bring him before the Council for further questioning. I was unsuccessful. But rest assured, the threat against Senator Amidala’s life has been neutralized. For now.”

Yoda nodded. “Spoken with your padawan, have you?”

“No, Master. I thought it best to inform the Council of my findings before making contact with Anakin.”

Yoda gave an indiscernible “hmmph,” and said, “Very well, Obi-Wan. Return to Naboo, you will. Collect your padawan and the Senator. Then report to the Temple for debriefing, you and Anakin will.”

“Understood, Master,” said Obi-Wan, inclining his head respectfully. “Kenobi, out.”

He ended the transmission and settled back into his seat in the cockpit, raking his hands over his face with a heavy sigh. It had been a long couple of days.

Narrowly avoiding capture by a group of terrorists. Jumping through space and time with a dogged bounty hunter in hot pursuit. A fight to the death. It was all just too much for Obi-Wan’s nerves.

But, Obi-Wan thought with a wry grin, Anakin would have loved every minute of it.

Amusement turned to worry the more his thoughts lingered on his young padawan. Being so far out of Anakin’s reach for such a significant length of time was far from ideal on the boy’s first solo mission; one which Obi-Wan still doesn’t believe him ready for.

He checked his comm again. No messages. He reminded himself yet again that the Council hadn’t mentioned any sort of calamity befalling Anakin or Senator Amidala. Obi-Wan has enough faith in his charge’s judgment to know that he would have alerted the Masters should he have found himself in hot water. Which meant that he was more than likely at the very least, still alive. Which was good. Very good.

Still.

There was the matter of Anakin’s rather blatant infatuation with Senator Amidala. If there’s one thing that comes naturally to that boy it’s running away with his emotions. Obi-Wan could only guess at what Anakin might get up to without him there to keep him in line. Especially If what Captain Panaka said about Amidala’s penchant for recklessness being stronger than even Anakin’s turned out to be true. That, in Obi-Wan’s book did not bode well for his padawan’s ability to carry out his first solo assignment responsibly.

Obi-Wan heaved another sigh, and reached for his comm. Hoping against all hope that Anakin hadn’t done anything too stupid in the time they had been apart.

 

* * *

 

Four-cheese spinach and tomato ravioli, Traditional Dantooine-style kibla greens, Corellian chili, Taba braised groat shank and stuffed Bellassan peppers.

Padmé’s lip curled as she surveyed the spread laid out in front of her.

Not one dish had come out the way she’d envisioned it. That is to say, the food smells appetizing enough--if she’s being generous, but it looks…less than appealing, to put it mildly. A far cry from the culinary masterpieces the Interest bloggers had pinned to their boards.

The ravioli was a soggy, discolored mass bubbling out of the antique Alderaanean serving dish it was festering in. The wilted peppers were regurgitating a brown, onion-y, rice-slime. The kibla greens were a swampy cesspool of minced bantha meat and shriveled onions. She’d burnt the chili to a crisp. And the Taba she’d “sprinkled’ over the groat had undergone some sort of alchemic transformation while in the oven that had caused it to morph into an oozing, pus-colored overgrowth that was now devouring the meat alive.

It was times like these that Padmé could clearly hear her mother’s sing-song voice droning in her ear

_Remember girls, Presentation is Key._

She shuddered.

In her defense, it’s been a whole twelve years since she’s had to fix anything more complicated than a bowl of porridge for herself. Clearly, attempting to prepare a full course gourmet meal had not been the best way to swing back into the kitchen. But she’d wanted this meal to be special; personal experience or no. It's tradition, after all. And as they say, nothing beats a failure but a try.

(...And when your failure is as abysmal as this one, you can take comfort in knowing that you did, in fact, try, and feel no guilt at all in disposing of the evidence before any relevant parties can catch wind of it.)

For a brief second, Padmé actually did consider chucking this toxic waste dump of a meal into the garbage bin and ordering takeout. But she’s never been one to abide waste, not after all of the orphanages and slums and displaced persons’ camps she’s visited throughout her tenure as a public servant. The thought of throwing away food—even food as unpalatable as this—is simply unconscionable. She’ll just have to stash this mess in the warmer until she can figure out a way to salvage it.

The period of mourning was an important time for any Naboo. Funerals were often lavish and lengthy affairs, with extended family, friends and acquaintances pouring in from all over to grieve with the deceased’s loved ones. When the funeral was over, mourners would typically stay on for an extra couple of days; a week, sometimes longer, to do what they can to provide further comfort to the family. The time usually spent cleaning the home, preparing meals, taking care of any last lingering business, and just being there for their loved ones. To walk with them in their grief.

Shmi’s funeral had been short and rather austere, by Nabooian standards. But Padmé had understood. While the Larses seemed to be better off than most on Tatooine, they more than likely didn’t have the money for the flowers and garnishments and music that was customary for funerals on her homeworld. Still, Padmé had wished she’d had something to adorn Shmi’s grave with. The woman had had so little of color or beauty in her life, having lived the entirety of it surrounded by pale sand and white heat, Padmé would have liked to have sent her off to the next world shrouded in flowers and silk, instead of the ratty old shift she’d been wrapped in.

This was selfish thinking on her part. All the flowers and finery in the galaxy wouldn’t have made the murder of Anakin's mother any more bearable for him.

To his credit, after his brief meltdown at the Tusken’s camp, Anakin had managed to collect himself and hold it together long enough to get the three of them back to the Lars’ homestead.

But burying Shmi had sent him crashing down again, and watching him come undone for the second time that day had been that much harder.

Unbridled and boundless, he’d raged at the Tuskens. At the Hutts. At Watto. At the desert. And finally, at Cliegg Lars; when the older man had pleaded for Anakin to please calm down, that everyone was devastated by Shmi’s passing, but there was no cause to take it out on the family’s personal property.

Thank the Mother Goddess for Owen’s quick reflexes, because if he had been a half-second later in grabbing Anakin when he'd lunged, Padmé feared they would have had to bury Cliegg beside his wife.

Suffice to say, she and Anakin had taken their leave of the Lars’ homestead shortly after the incident. Padmé doubted he would ever be welcome there again.

The trip back to Naboo had passed in uneasy silence; the firestorm of Anakin's rage having simmered down to smoky coals by the time they'd reached hyperspace. Not wanting to do anything to ignite them, Padmé had let him be.

They had both been physically and emotionally exhausted by the time they’d arrived back at Varykino and had retired to their respective rooms without another word to one another. Neither had they spoken at all day today. Anakin had awoken early and had spent the entire day out on the balcony, meditating. Still wary of his mood, Padmé had left him to it. He had his way of dealing. She had her’s.

And even if her method hadn't panned out the way Padmé had hoped it would, what matters was that she was here. Here to talk. Here to listen. Here to make horrible, inedible meals for him to turn up his nose at.

Here to walk with him in his grief, should he decide to let her.

Something brushed up beside her just then, nearly causing her to drop the tray of peppers she'd been about to set inside the warmer.

“What’s all this?”

Make that some _one._

Padmé spun around to find a bedraggled looking Anakin standing right behind her. Apparently, she'd been wrong about him getting up early to meditate; the bags under his eyes suggested he may not have slept at all.

He stood, wooden and slightly hunched. Looking impossibly small in his loose fitting tunic, with his shoulders curved inward and down, and his hands digging into the pockets of his sleep pants. His whole form quaked with a seismic tremor; as though he were bearing the weight of his invisible burden fine for the moment, but the foundation had long begun to crack under the strain.

The seconds dragged on, and Anakin began to shift from foot to foot, the dour expression on his face twisting into one of confusion. It took Padmé a second to realize this was because she'd been too busy staring to respond to his question.

"Ani!" she said belatedly, shaking herself from her reverie. "You startled me. I thought you were still meditating."

He shrugged. "The smell distracted me," he said sheepishly.

Padmé’s face burned. She felt the sudden urge to shove her head in one of the dirty pots soaking in the sink.

"What's all this?" Anakin asked again. Padmé stifled a groan.

 _Trash_ , she almost said. But then her mouth opened, and through gritted teeth, she answered, "Tradition."

Anakin's brow furrowed. Padmé sighed and set the tray back on the counter behind her, before turning back to face him.

"Mourning is an important time for the Naboo. When a loved one...passes on," she said, choosing the words delicately. Unsure of how Anakin would take hearing them said aloud. At his blank look, she continued. "It's customary for the grieving period to extend long after the funeral is over. A week or two at most. Sometimes longer, if it's a politician or celebrity. During that time friends and relatives visit the family of the deceased and...you know, bring gifts, clean the house. Prepare a lot of food..."

She trailed off, embarrassed. The pointlessness of this endeavor becoming all the more apparent now that she was actually explaining it out loud to Anakin's bemused face.

"I just thought I might whip something up," she finished lamely. "Customs aside, I don't think I've seen you eat anything since before we left for Tatooine. You must be hungry..."

He shrugged again. The sullen look on his face remained unchanged, even as his eyes zeroed in on the food on the counter behind her.

"So..." he murmured, pressing his lips together. "So, you did all this just for me?"

Padmé blanched. "Yes," she grudgingly admitted. Then, quickly added, "I'm so sorry."

Anakin blinked, his mouth twisting into a confused smile. "For what?"

"For what?" she said with an incredulous eye roll. "Look at it! It's ruined!"

"Who cares how it looks, it smells amazing."

"Smells can be deceiving," said Padmé, folding her arms across her chest.

Anakin shook his head obstinately. "If it smells good, it tastes good."

Then, as if to prove his point, side stepped her and made his way over to the spot on the counter where the ravioli sat. He dipped two fingers into the dish, and pulled up a huge glob of cheese, plopping it into his mouth. Padmé grimaced.

"You might at least use a plate."

Anakin stuffed his hand back into his pocket. "Sorry," he mumbled. Only half meaning it.

Padmé huffed quietly to herself and went over to the cabinet next to the stove and pulled out a plate, then fetched a fork and a serving spoon from a drawer near the sink. She scooted Anakin out of the way and--against her better instinct--spooned out a large helping of ravioli, then led him into the dining room to sit down at the table like a civilized person.

"Aren't you going to have some too?" he asked, as she set the plate down in front of him.

Padmé cringed. She'd hoped he would be too preoccupied with eating to notice the absence of her own plate. How exactly does one tactfully say 'This food may be edible to you, but I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole' to the person for whom they'd cooked the meal in the first place?

"I'm not feeling very hungry," she said with a placid politician's smile she knew Anakin wouldn't be fooled by.

"Well neither am I," he pouted. "You've given me way too much. I can't eat all of this on my own..."

And before she could stop him, he stood up from his seat and headed back into the kitchen, returning a few seconds later with a second plate and fork. Padmé politely swallowed back her protests as she watched him spoon half his portion onto the plate, and floated it over to her with the Force.

It was even more disgusting up close.

Padmé held her breath, and stabbed her fork into a small piece of ravioli and shakily brought it up to her lips.

"Oh come on," Anakin said with an all too eager smirk. "It may not look picture-perfect, but it's actually pretty good. You should give yourself more credit."

She squinted at him, mutinous. He grinned back, cheekily. And that did it. The first genuine smile she'd seen on him since their picnic in the shaak fields was enough to give Padmé the strength to put the mushy square of pasta in her mouth.

…

Okay. He was right. It wasn't half bad. Curse him, and that stupid smug smirk spreading across his face.

The pasta itself was gooey and wet-tasting and would have been utterly vomit-inducing if it hadn't been offset by the tanginess of the tomato sauce combined with the zest of the spinach. But the cheese. The cheese is what truly saved this otherwise unsalvageable dish. Thank the Mother Goddess for Jerba.

Anakin quirked an eyebrow, his smirk widening.

"Fine," Padmé sighed. "It's actually pretty okay. You were right."

"Ha!" he slapped his hand against the table. Then, with a tiny hiss of pain, immediately snatched it back into his laps.

"Are you alright?"

“I’m fine,” he said quickly.

Padmé frowned, unconvinced. "What's wrong with your hand?"

"Nothing," he snapped. "Just...I hurt it earlier. On Tatooine."

"Let me see," she said, getting up and walking over to his side of the table.

"No!"

He shot up from his seat, knocking it over in his attempt to retreat before Padmé could catch him. It backfired, and in his haste to escape, he tripped over the legs of the chair and nearly would have gone stumbling to the floor had Padmé not caught him by the wrist before he could make impact. He resisted her, but could only pull away so hard without further upsetting the injury. Padmé held firm, tugging the injured appendage closer to get a better look.

Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the purple and blue-black bruising around his knuckles. His ring and middle fingers were bent awkwardly at the second knuckle and tip, respectively. While his pinkie had gone crooked, the knuckle ballooned to the size of a small grape.

"Oh, Ani..."

Her grip loosened, allowing his hand to slip away before she could regain her hold.

"It's nothing," he said shortly, clutching his hand to his chest.

"It's not nothing,” she protested. "Give it back, I wasn't done."

He took a step back, turning away from her. Padmé reached out and caught his arm again before he could go any further. He tensed.

"Ani," she said, gentler this time. "I just want to help. Let me see your hand. Please?"

He relaxed his arm and allowed her to take his hand back. Padmé did her best to be as gentle as possible as she uncurled his fist and resumed examining the discolored joints of his three fractured digits.

"It's fine," Anakin insisted, worrying his lip between his teeth as his fingers trembled in her grasp. "I banged my fist against the wall earlier today, on accident.”

"It's not fine," she said. For now, choosing to ignore that he'd just contradicted himself. "Your fingers need to be set, or they won't heal properly."

"I said it's fine!" Anakin snapped. Snatching his arm away, and stumbling back against the wall. His eyes darting around, madly. Cornered. Padmé took a few steps back to give him space, holding her arms up in surrender.

"Anakin..." she tried to reason. "Please. I just want to help you."

"No one can help me!" he shrieked. "There's nothing you can do! There's nothing anyone can do!"

"I understand--"

"No, you don't! You have no idea!"

"You're right," she backpedaled. Taking a step closer to him as he slumped against the wall. "I don't have any idea what you're going through. None at all. I'm sorry for making presumptions."

She drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, Ani. I wish...I wish I could..."

_Take it all back for you. Turn time back to that day on Tatooine when we left your mother behind, and pummel Watto into the sand until he set her free too._

_Go back to a few days ago, when we'd first arrived here and reroute our course to Tatooine. Cross our fingers and hope that a few days would make all the difference._

_Bring back the dead. Give your mother a second chance at a real life._

_Or better yet, rewrite your and your mother's fates entirely and make it so that the two of you had never been enslaved in that wasteland in the first place._

_If only._

_If only..._

Would that Padmé could allow herself to stand here and wish for the impossible. But she'd long since grown out of such childish indulgences. This right here is what she can do. It doesn't feel like enough, but it'll have to be.

"You're not alone," she whispered thickly. "You think you are, and maybe you're the only person who truly has the right to grieve for your mother. But you don't have to bear it all by yourself."

She came closer to him so that they were standing face to face. Emboldened when he didn't back away, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, stroking the soft curls at his nape in that way that had worked so well before.

"I'm here," she whispered, as he sunk into her embrace. The full weight of him nearly crushing her. She did her best to hold him steady so as not to send them both bowling over onto the floor.

"I'm here for you," she said again. Swaying back and forth in an effort to balance them both. "I'm here..."

Anakin shuddered in her arms and exhaled a wet, shaky sob against her shoulder. Leaving behind goosebumps along the base of her neck.

"It's alright," Padmé cooed. "Let it out. it's alright."

"It isn't!" he cried. "I'm a Jedi. I'm supposed to be better than this!"

"You're grieving," she insisted. "It's natural."

"Jedi don't grieve," he said adamantly. "They don't cling to the past. I know I'm better than this. I have to be!"

It was like he was reciting a script. Not his own words, but ones that have been drilled into him time and time again. It made Padmé’s heart clench.

"You don't have to be anything," she said. Pulling back and brushing away the tears streaming down his face with the pads of her thumbs. "It's just you and me here. I'm not Obi-Wan, and I say it's alright for you to let go."

Anakin's face crumpled, and with a loud wail, he went slack in her arms again; the movement catching Padmé off guard this time, and sending them both crashing down to the hard marble floor. She landed them as gracefully as she could, readjusting herself and Anakin so that she was sitting cross-legged with his head pillowed in her lap.

It was a long while before either of them spoke. Anakin's muffled weeping the only sound in the room, until he himself broke the silence.

"I hate them," he croaked. His voice hoarse and reedy from stifled sobs and renewed fury.

"The Tuskens?"

"Everyone," he said. A beat, then. "Except you."

"Well that's a relief," Padmé said wryly.

"I'm not supposed to hate. Jedi don't hate. Or get angry. Or cry."

"Yes they do," she insisted. "I'm sure they do. They're people just like everyone else. It's not the emotion that's wrong, Ani. It's what you do with it."

The assurance was meant to have a soothing effect. Instead, it only seemed to egg him on further.

"I want them all dead."

"I hope you mean the Tuskens."

He made a little sound in the back of his throat that Padmé was choosing to accept as an affirmative.

"I want to rip them apart. Slaughter them like the animals they are!"

Padmé pressed her lips together, her breath hitching on a teary sigh as she remembered Shmi's rail thin body dangling from a rope, nothing left of her but a picked over slab of meat. Truthfully...

"I don't blame you."

Anakin rolled over, pressing his face into her middle. A shiver ran down Padmé’s spine as she felt hot puffs of air blow against her stomach.

"Thank you."

She nodded silently. Unsure if "you're welcome" was the appropriate response to give in this circumstance.

"Not just for...that," he said, tilting his head back some so that she could hear him better. "For going with me to Tatooine, and for being there in the Tuskens' camp...when Mom....A-and for making me dinner. It really was good, you know."

Padmé snorted. "You didn't see the chili."

"You worry too much about appearances."

She stiffened. "I just wanted it to be nice for you."

"It was," he said. "No one's ever done anything like that for me before. Anyway, I told you. It doesn't matter how food looks, all that matters is the taste. The pasta was good. I'm sure everything else came out fine too."

His words lit a pale fire inside Padmé’s belly, making her blush, in spite of herself.

"Does that mean you're feeling hungry now?" she smirked down at him, laying her palm against the side of his face, and running her thumb along his cheek.

He shook his head, his mouth twisting into another tiny smile as he leaned into her hand.

"Maybe later."

 

* * *

 

They share Padme's bed that night.

In the literal sense, of course. Just to sleep.

After seeing Anakin through his third breakdown in as many days, Padmé had been loathe to let him out of her sight; and it was evident in how reluctant he'd been to get up from her lap that the feeling was mutual. And so, rather than condemn him to another lonely, sleepless night, Padme had brought him up to her rooms. A wordless invitation that Anakin had accepted with a relieved smile.

He'd been a perfect gentleman all night; keeping to his side at the far edge of the bed, and sleeping with his back to her. No attempts to cuddle. No awkward flirting. No sudden fits of suppressed tears and fury. Just a quiet night's rest for the both of them. In the morning, rather than waking to find him pressed up against her, as she'd anticipated, Padmé had woken alone; Anakin's side of the bed cold and neatly made.

The whole experience had been fairly restrained, given the impassioned declaration of love he had made to her just a few days prior, coupled with the fact that he'd spent the better part of the previous evening with his head buried in her lap. It left Padmé feeling strangely disappointed.

Figuring that Anakin was once again going to spend the day meditating, Padmé decided to let him be, for a while. Making a mental note to check on him in a few hours. In the meantime, she was going to be making an illicit trip out to the grazing fields.

In all the tumult of last night, they'd forgotten to put away the leftovers from their mostly untouched dinner. If there was anything worse than soggy, overcooked food, it's soggy, overcooked food that's been left out all night. Padmé refused on principle to subject herself to the puerile slop fermenting in those serving dishes, and that went double for Anakin. The poor boy's been through enough. No. Her misgivings with wastefulness aside, this mess would have to go.

Luckily, there is a simple solution to this dilemma; shaaks, as everyone knows, will eat anything.

And so it is with a clear conscience that Padmé shovels the remains of her failed culinary experiment into an old rusted pail and makes her way out to the pastures.

The herd is already out and grazing by the time she reaches their fields. They pay her no mind as she weaves between them, pouring out the foul-smelling contents of the pail as she does her best to stay out from underfoot and away from their direct line of grazing. For all that shaaks are gentle, they can get pretty territorial about their food. It's not until she finishes that Padmé realizes that none of the herd had bothered to look up from their grass to acknowledge the extra feed she'd left them.

Fine. If even animals won't touch her food, at least it's biodegradable.

Task complete, but not quite ready to head back up to the house just yet, Padmé chose an elevated spot a safe distance away from the herd and settled in to enjoy the sun and fresh air a little while longer.

Naboo is a planet overflowing with sprawling, spellbinding beauty, it can be difficult for some to claim a favorite place in the world. But this little corner of her homeworld will always remain Padmé's. Because Varykino is more than a lakeside vacation home. It's a place in time. A living memory. A doorway through to the brief period in her life where political alliances and trade embargoes had been someone else's problem. When she was still just plucky little Padmé Naberrie, the precocious, gap-toothed girl in pigtails whose sole aspiration in life was out-swimming her big sister.

Mathematically, this wasn't all that long ago, given the length of the average human lifespan. But Mother Goddess does it feel that way.

Most days, Padmé feels she hardly resembles the person she'd been before becoming Amidala. Had she really ever been that little? That carefree? That naive? Looking back on this part of her life is like flipping through a someone else's holo-album. Reliving the memories of some anonymous shadow figure, who'd grown up to lead a completely ordinary life, devoid of political theater and assassination attempts. The could-have-been life of the familiar stranger Padmé keeps bundled beneath the guise of the Queen and the mantle of the Senator, and calls forth only on certain, specific occasions.

Being at home with her family. Work holidays with Sabé and the others. Those few hours she has to herself between the workday's end and going to bed. Visiting Varykino.

Padmé's life will forever be dominated by politics. She knows this. Accepted it long ago, and has no regrets. She lives and breathes her work, and knows that she can never again return to being the person she was before embarking down this path at fourteen.

But she can revisit the memories. Here, in the place where they're the strongest.

Padmé will always be grateful to Varykino for this. For giving her just one more small space in which to be young and unfettered and free.

But she should really be getting back. It's well past noon, and she wants to check on Anakin. He's probably wondering where she is by now. She really shouldn't have stayed out for so long, unguarded. Having been through protection detail several times throughout her career, Padmé is well aware of the protocols and the risks that come with breaking them. This had been grossly irresponsible of her.

Back at the house, she finds Anakin exactly where she'd expect to. Standing on the balcony of the room overlooking the gardens in his usual meditative stance. Straight-backed. Feel apart. Hands locked neatly behind him. But right away she can tell something is off.

She couldn't say what it was, at first. Other than a sense, an inkling that something was not quite right with this picture in front of her. But a quick cursory check around the immediate vicinity gave no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary.

Until she heard an audible snap pierce the air.

Looking around for the source of the noise, something shiny caught Padmé's eye. Upon closer inspection, she saw what she had missed during her initial scan. A sliver of metal laying among what looked to be shredded pieces of white foam scattered around on the ground at Anakin's feet. She bent down and scooped up a handful. Holding the bits of debris in her hand, she realized they were what remained of the splints she'd put on Anakin's fingers last night, now all mangled and discarded.

Which meant Anakin's fingers were bare.

Not just bare, Padmé realized, actually looking at them for the first time. Bare and bruised. Swollen. Blue-black sausage links being crushed inside his fist. His right middle finger, which he'd broken last night, was crossed over the index of that hand at an awkward angle. While his left index was being pulled back by his right ring finger. All the way back, until there was another ominous snapping sound, and it was released to dangle beside the other two limp digits. And then the remaining unbroken fingers of that hand curled around his thumb--

"Anakin stop!"

Padmé rushed forward and pried his thumb out of his hands before he could so much as flinch. Bringing that whole hand, the more abused of the two up to her chest. Cradling it delicately in her hands. She stared blankly up at Anakin, totally at a loss for words. Her heart thudding against her ribs. He blinked back at her, startled.

"What were you doing just now?" Padmé asked, still trying to get her heart rate under control. "What was that?"

Trapped and utterly mortified, Anakin could do nothing but gape at her. He looked down at his hand which was still held in hers,' and tried to pull away. She held firm, in the process, accidentally pressing her thumb into the blackened knuckle of Anakin's index finger. He paled, and his tugging ceased. Padmé grimaced and ran her thumb across the back of his hand in apology.

"Anakin..." she prompted. Keeping her voice soft and level, so as not to startle him further.

Again, he said nothing but continued to gaze at her, expectantly, fearfully, as if waiting for her to break the rest of his fingers. They started to twitch again inside Padmé's grasp and she relaxed her grip and took a step back, allowing Anakin to pull away. He let his arm drop and dangle down by his side and bowed his head to the ground.

They stood there facing one another in a tense standoff. Her, willing him to look up at her. Him, doing his best to evaporate into the atmosphere. This went on for several uncomfortable minutes, until finally, Padmé gave in.

"Come with me," she said briskly, circling an arm around his wrist and leading him back inside the bedroom. He sagged along after her, meek and bowed. As though she were leading him by a leash, rather than by hand.

She plopped him down on the corner of the bed, with strict orders not to move until she returned with the medkit. As instructed, Anakin was still slumped over and listless in the exact spot Padmé left him in when she returned. His demeanor remained unchanged upon her reentry; until she came over to sit down beside him, and he recoiled, his eyes darting over to the doorway leading out to the balcony. Padmé caught his arm before he could spring, causing his whole body to go slack as she drew him back into his spot on the bed.

She smoothed a hand along his shoulder blades to settle him again. Then reached over and took his hand into her lap, relieved when he didn't resist.

She did her best to work as quickly as possible, not knowing how long she would have the benefit of Anakin's cooperation. All the while asking herself what had changed between them since last night to make him so averse to her helping him. Had she, in her inexperience, unknowingly made the wounds worse? Had she not done the splints properly? Had they been hurting him, and he simply hadn’t want to say so? A hot wave of embarrassment flooded Padmé's stomach. Her cheeks burned. She set the medical tape and the splint she'd been holding down on the bed and thought for a moment. There should still be an old Em-Dee unit in the third-floor utility closet. By now, it's nearly two decades past obsolete, likely in need of several dozen upgrades. But it definitely has more medical knowledge than she does, right? Perhaps she should go and fetch it.

"I'm sorry."

Padmé jerked up to see Anakin finally looking at her. A timid, almost teary expression on his face. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I...I..."

He faltered, looking down at his lap again. "I-I don't...I don't..."

Padmé inched closer to him and laid a hand on his back. "It's okay. You can tell me, whatever it is. You don't need to apologize."

Anakin swallowed thickly and was quiet for a few seconds. Then said. "I don't know why I do it."

"Do what?" her brow furrowed.

Impatient, he shot her an obvious look, and thrust his hand out, wincing as his crooked fingers went splayed and dangling.

Padmé nodded slowly. Comprehension dawning. "You wanted to hurt yourself," she said. "You pulled off the splints...and broke more of your fingers, deliberately. Because you wanted to hurt yourself."

Anakin nodded miserably.

"Why?"

"I don't know!"

He jumped to his feet and began pacing the floor, his gait blind and stormy like a captured nexu railing at the bars of its cage.

"I'm just so--!" he cut himself off as he swerved in the other direction. "She's! And I--! I feel--I just feel so angry! All the time, since we got back. Since we found her! Since Cliegg told me I shouldn't be mad about her dying! Since--! I'm just so mad, and I'm trying to put it all away like I know I should, and it's not WORKING! IT NEVER WORKS!!!"

He rounded on the doorway to the fresher, slamming the bruised knuckles of his right hand into the jamb. Then with a strangled sob, slunk down along the wall all the way to the floor. Clutching the abused appendage to his chest as a low, weepy moan began seeping past his lips.

Shaking herself out of her shock at the sudden outburst, Padmé stood up from the bed and went over to crouch down beside him.

"Ani..." she said gently. Smoothing his reddened cheeks with the back of her hand. "I want to help you, but you have to talk to me. In full sentences, I mean. What isn't working?"

He turned his head into the wall and mumbled something unintelligible.

"Come again?" Padmé said wryly. He tilted his head slightly.

"Meditation."

“’Meditation?’”

"We're supposed to meditate in times like this," he explained hoarsely. "When we're feeling emotions like this. We're supposed to give everything up to the Force and find balance again. And I'm TRYING, I really am, but I-I can't--"

Padmé caught his fist before he could beat it against the wall again.

"Well then maybe that's not the best method for you."

Anakin looked at her as if she'd just told him the grass was yellow and the sky bright green.

"But it’s how we're supposed to,” he said numbly.

"There's more than one way to deal with grief, Ani," Padmé said reasonably. Hadn't anyone ever told him that? Hadn't his mother had time to teach him that?

Anakin shook his head ruefully. "Master Obi-Wan would be very grumpy if he heard you say that," he mumbled.

"Well Master Obi-Wan isn't here," Padmé said primly. She drew in a deep breath and thought about this some more. Was it the act of meditation itself he had trouble with? The philosophy? The methods? Surely at this stage in his training, Obi-Wan is aware of his student’s difficulties and has come up with way to help him navigate them. So why wasn’t Anakin using them?

"Have you always had these issues?" she asked lightly. "Does Obi-Wan know?"

Anakin's eyes widened frantically. "He knows I'm lousy at meditation, but he doesn't know about..." he looked down at his hand, still resting in hers'. "Please. Please, Padmé you can't tell him, he'd--"

"I'm not going to tell him anything," Padmé said measuredly. "But you have to help me out here, Ani. Help me help you. Tell me, what's it like for you when you meditate. Why do you think you have so much trouble? Don't say you don't know. I think you do."

Anakin was silent for a few seconds. He looked down, once again rubbing his face into the wall.

"It's my head," he said bitterly. "It's...it's all...It's not normal."

"How do you mean?"

"It's like...it never stops. Everything is always happening. And the more I try to tell it to stop, it only makes things worse."

"You have trouble centering yourself," she clarified.

He nodded.

"It's something everyone learns as a youngling," he said. "Obi-Wan says I have trouble because I was found too late."

"Does he do anything to help you?"

Anakin smiled, a shy, watery smile that just as quickly faded away. "He used to hold my hands. When I was little he would hold my hands through the whole thing," he looked down. Face twisting into a bitter grimace. "I'm too old for that now. I should be able to do this on my own."

Padmé gave his forearm a gentle squeeze. "Did it help? The hand holding?"

He nodded.

"How?"

Anakin paused to clear his throat, and lifted his head off the wall. "It...I guess because it gave me something else to focus on. When I got too restless I could squeeze his hands. And he'd squeeze back. And then..."

He trailed off, leaning back against the wall as a sort of grave wistfulness washed over his face. Padmé knew, then that that was all she'd be getting out of him for now. But that was fine. He'd given her an idea.

"Ani?"

He lifted his head up in attention.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

He drew a long, ragged breath, and nodded.

 

* * *

 

The night before her coronation, Padmé's parents had hosted a huge farewell dinner for her at Varykino. Friends, neighbors, extended family, her campaign staff, and anyone and everyone else Padmé had ever come into contact with during her first fourteen years of life had all come out to offer hugs and well wishes to the Naberries' youngest daughter on the eve of what would be the most important day of her life.

Though it had been a lavish and lively affair, particularly by Nabooian standards, Padmé had trouble remembering the party as anything more than a blurred series of perfunctory mingling, bland yet well-intentioned advice, and generic goodbyes. Her one significant memory of that night happened after all the celebration was over.

It was in the middle of the night. Her parents and sister, and their remaining guests had all retired for the evening. Wound too tight for sleep, Padmé was the only person in the house still awake. Her restlessness had found her dazedly wandering the pitch black halls of the second and third floors, until she’d ended up in the middle of her parents’ bedroom. Her mother and father had taken one look at their hysterical daughter (by this point, Padmé was so out of it, she hadn't even realized she'd started crying) and shuffled her into bed with them.

This is Padmé’s favorite part of the memory. How safe she’d felt, nestled in between the two of them; with her father stroking her hair, and her mother whisper-singing old lullabies into her ear. As though she were a little girl, still allowed the fantasy of there being nothing beyond her parents’ arms that could ever get to her, if they just held her tight enough. It was a nice thought. But not one Padmé’s unfailingly pragmatic brain would let her entertain for very long, even at fourteen.

And this is where the sweetness of the memory starts to turn bitter. Once reality had set back in; reminding her that this night would be the last time she could ever allow herself such pretense. That in a few hours, she would be boarding an express transport to adulthood. That there would be a whole world out there for her to govern come morning, and that there could be no retreating back into the shelter of her parents’ embrace while crisis after crisis loomed and everyone looked to her for wisdom and guidance.

The truth had resettled heavily over Padmé’s young heart, clogging her throat with fresh tears. At the time, she had tried in vain to articulate all this to her equally distraught parents, only to have the attempt send her spiraling down into further hysterics. But looking back on this moment ten years down the line, Padmé knows they understood without her having to tell them anything.

Because a few hours later, after she had cried herself half-asleep, her mother had roused her from the bed to follow her into the bedroom closet. She had a present for her; she'd said. The party had kept them moving in different circles all evening; so she had been planning to wait until the morning to give it to her. But in light of Padmé's apprehension, her mother thought now was as good a time as any.

One can imagine young Padmé's disappointment when the present turned out to be a box of rocks.

Not rocks, Mom had corrected her, with a patient laugh. Healing crystals. "To help you find your balance again, when your work gets to be too stressful.”

Dubious, but ever-mindful of her manners, Padmé had graciously accepted her mother's gift and listened attentively as she went on to explain the purpose and philosophy behind healing crystals and their power to cleanse the mind and body of negative energies, and help one achieve optimal emotional and spiritual wellbeing. She’d emerged from the presentation unswayed, but nonetheless appreciative of the sentiment behind the gesture. In the morning, the box of brightly colored gems were neatly packed in with the rest of her belongings to take with her to Theed Palace. And so have they stayed with her through every subsequent move and transition she's made throughout her adult life.

But in that time, Padmé has developed her own coping strategies for when the demands of the job begin to overwhelm her. Decompressing by way of long walks, shopping trips, or venting sessions over pasta and wine do so much more for her than lying naked on the floor with rocks spread along her torso in a half-hearted attempt at "unclogging her spiritual septic-tank.” While she does hold a deep respect for any philosophy that encourages self-reflection and spiritual wellness, Padmé prides herself on being a do-er, a woman of action over rhetoric and rumination. She finds solace in her work, or else in movement. In being in the company of those most precious to her, or in occasional acts of hard-earned self-indulgence. Meditation has just never appealed to her as a means of de-stressing.

All that is to say, her mother’s crystals have sat in their box and collected dust for ten years; unused, and for the most part, forgotten. Until today.

Padmé may not hold much with meditation, but for Anakin, it is the bedrock of everything he's been taught by his Jedi guardians throughout his years of training. And really, who is she to spit in the face of millennia of Jedi philosophy? If this is what Anakin’s teachings say he needs to do to best make sense of his mother's murder; then as his friend, who'd vowed to do everything in her power to see him through this difficult time, it was Padmé's duty to help him find a way to engage in this exercise without turning his grief inward on himself.

In any case, all signs pointed to her being on the right track thus far, given Anakin’s immediate fixation on the crystals upon being presented with them. He’d yet to put down the one in his hand since taking it out of the box.

"Okay, so--" she broke off to check the sheet of flimsi containing the meditation guide that had come with the set. "The first step is to place the sunstone crystal over the solar plexus, and..."

She trailed off again, with a quiet laugh as she peeked over the edge of the page to see Anakin still toying with the gemstone in his hand.

This particular crystal was rather large compared to the rest of the set, especially given that its place was over the throat (meant to represent open communication). It was about the size of his palm; ocean blue and in a sort of half-finished, malformed trillion cut, with jagged edges jutting out along its upper ridges. Padmé didn't think they were sharp enough to cut him, but that didn’t stop her from holding her breath every time Anakin clenched his un-splinted fingers around the tip. Only releasing it when he uncurled his fist to let the crystal float a few centimeters into the air, giving Padmé a small window in which to check that his hand was still free of any fresh marks or abrasions. Then the crystal would fall back into his fist, cutting off her oxygen until he released it again. And again. And again. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

And yet, in spite of how anxiety-inducing it was, Padmé couldn't help but get sucked in, watching Anakin play. It was so soothing, almost hypnotizing, watching him watch the crystal drift around through the air, that little smirk of wonderment tugging at his lips, his eyes wide open with ardent fascination. Padmé found it so indescribably endearing that in spite of how much Anakin’s grown, he hasn’t lost one bit of his quirky, little-boy earnestness. It's one of the things she loves best about him, his unabashed enthusiasm for life’s simplicities. In Padmé’s line of work, it's not every day she meets people who are so easily pleased. Anakin’s so very refreshing in that way.

"That's aquamarine," she told him, raising her voice a few decibels, sure that now was as good a time as any to remind him of her presence, in case he'd forgotten. He started at the sound of her voice, his eyes snapping open and his head jerking over in her direction. Clearly, he had.

"It's meant to be placed over your throat," she said to his glazed expression. "To symbolize the unlocking of your voice."

Anakin hummed, only half-listening, having already reverted his attention back to the crystal. "I like this one," he murmured.

He rolled it around in his palm a few more times, and then slowly let it rise up into the air. Drawing it in revolution around his unbroken index finger, his entire body curving around it as it spun; as though the crystal were now a planet unto itself and he had become its moon.

"Just that one?" Padmé teased. "What about the others?"

Anakin shrugged and didn't look up. Too preoccupied to pay any mind to the other apparently defective crystals resting in the box off to the side of him.

Well, if he insisted. It's not like Padmé's any sort of authority on how this is supposed to go. Folding up the sheet of flimsi, she tucked it back inside the box and turned her attention back onto him.

"What do you like about it so much?" she pressed. Both for curiosity’s sake, and out of desperation. He was slipping away from her before she had even gotten anything out of him.

Anakin was silent for a moment. Ostensibly still transfixed by the crystal, but betrayed by the sudden tautness in his posture and the imperceptible tightening in his jaw. Unfazed, Padmé made to repeat herself, before Anakin said:

"It's pretty."

She nodded, brow furrowing in bemusement. "That's it? I think all the crystals are pretty. What makes this one so special to you?"

No answer.

"Does it remind you of anything?"

More silence. But of a different sort than before. Contemplative, and loosened. It took a while for him to respond, but Padmé didn’t feel a need to press him further. She knew this time he would answer once he found the words.

"...Water," he grunted, at last.

Padmé held her breath, waiting for him to elaborate.

"There's so much of it here in the Core," he went on. "Lakes and oceans and swamps and showers. I never knew there were so many different kinds before coming here. We never had enough. We were always thirsty."

"You and your mother," she treaded carefully. Unsure of how he would react to the mention of her. "On Tatooine?"

He nodded. "We had to be very careful with it. They could take it away whenever they wanted."

"The Hutts?"

"The owners."

Padmé nodded mutely, her heart clenching as she did her best not to think about what Anakin and his mother must have endured before being freed. She wrapped an arm around Anakin’s waist and pulled him closer to her as she began brushing her fingers through the fine hairs at the base of his neck.

"She never got to see any of it," he said numbly, as he slouched down into her side to give her better access.

“Water, you mean?”

He nodded. "She wouldn't have been able to believe her eyes if she saw how much there is out here."

Finding the crystal, which had remained floating the air while he’d been talking, Anakin curled it up in his fist, and went silent again. Padmé once again held her breath while he tightened his hold around the edges until his unbroken knuckles went white. He lowered his head to his fist and began to beat it against his head. Lightly, at first. Little raps against his temple that gradually began to pick up more force as his silence wore on.

Alarmed, Padmé caught his wrist and brought his hand up to her lips to press light kisses against the un-splinted knuckles while Anakin kept his head hung low, refusing to look her way.

"Words, Ani," she said firmly. "Use your words. This stone is your voice, remember?"

"My voice," he repeated, in a rote, flat tone.

"That's right," Padmé said encouragingly. "Talk to me. You can tell me anything. Let it out."

He heaved a low, heavy sigh that gradually became a groan, and then finally a growly, guttural whine. Padmé brought his knuckles to her lips again. He looked up.

"I wish it had been me," he heaved, the words coming out on the end of a strangled moan. "I wish I'd stayed. I should have stayed. I should have never left. I knew leaving her behind was a bad idea. I should have never listened to—I should have...I--"

He broke off with a gravelly half-sob and hung his head again. His lips began to move before the words could fully form. They came forth slow and mumbled and laced with dread. A shameful, long-kept secret.

"I think I hate Obi-Wan."

Padmé sucked in a steadying breath, and said nothing. Having seen what had become of Shmi Skywalker with her own eyes, she could not bring herself to condemn Anakin for whom he chose to direct his anger toward. Wordlessly, she bid him to continue, trailing her thumbs along the back of his hand in slow, soothing circles.

"I hate him," Anakin said menacingly. His voice rising with Padmé’s silent encouragement. Palm open and flat, the crystal floated back into the air and began to spin, leaving the fingers of that hand to clutch at air.

"I hate him!” he cried. “I hate him. I hate him! I hate him! I told him she was in trouble! I begged him. I kriffing _begged_ him to let me go back and he—!"

His voice cracked on a dry wail as fresh tears began to leak from his eyes. He dropped his face into his hands, his whole body quaking with the attempt to suppress them.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. Not lifting his head when Padmé shifted behind him and set her hands over his shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Don’t be,” she said. “You’re grieving. It’s natural to cry.”

He shook his head fervently, as if she hadn’t said anything. “I can’t keep doing this,” he wept to himself. “I’m a Jedi, I’m supposed to be better than this.”

In front of him, the stone had begun to gyrate at a speed so fast it was now nothing more than a blue blur. Barely visible against the backdrop of the clear afternoon.

“No one is above grief,” Padmé said mildly, as she smoothed her hands along Anakin’s upper back and shoulders. “Or sadness. Or anger. You’re only human, Ani.”

He responded with a long, pent-up wail that shook his whole body. Garbling something unintelligible, he tried to pull away. But Padmé went with him, wrapping her arms around his front and letting herself fall flush against his back as he sank forward. Settled, she reached out and grabbed the still-spinning stone, forcing it back into Anakin’s empty palm.

“You have feelings,” she said. “You can’t just lock them up and ignore them. It’s okay to let them out. Necessary, in fact.”

She smirked wryly at herself for recycling her mother’s old spiel.

“That’s the point of healing crystals. To help you reconcile negative emotions.”

Anakin stiffened. “I’m no good at that.”

Padmé chuckled dryly. “Truthfully, I don’t think anyone is. But we try. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”

“Tell that to Obi-Wan,” he said darkly.

“Maybe I will, once I see him again,” she said. “But for now, do you want to actually try the full exercise, with the other crystals?”

Anakin hesitated, glancing back down at the one in his hand, and again floating it up to hover and glide along his fingertips. Padmé set a hand on his shoulder, bringing him back to her, before the crystal could steal his attention away. He gave her a cautious look, and she nodded. Letting him know that it was okay to say aloud what they both knew he was thinking.

“I only like this one,” he admitted quietly, looking down at his lap.

“Does it help?” Padmé asked,

He squirmed, uncertain. “It makes me cry.”

“It did,” she said levelly. “But you do feel better, don’t you? Now that you got all of that out?”

There was a long pause, and then a small, stunted, “Yes…”

Suppressing a triumphant smirk, Padmé cupped Anakin’s cheek in her hand, skimming her thumb along the flushed skin. The full grin breaking through as he purred into her palm like a baby tusk-cat. Nuzzling her.

“Then keep it,” she said, swallowing thickly. Her heart skipping several beats, taking all her air with it along for the ride. Clearly feeling quite bold at the moment, Anakin turned his head inward to press a tiny kiss of thanks into her palm. Padmé gulped, audibly. Her face burned.

“Keep it,” she said again, after several measured breaths. “Use it. Instead of…” she paused again to look down at his splints. “Use the crystal to focus. It’s alright if it dredges up sad memories. It’s alright if it makes you cry. There’s nothing wrong with feeling things strongly, Ani. Remember, It’s not the emotions themselves, it’s what you do with them.”

She cupped his chin between her two fingers and tilted his head so that their foreheads were touching. Then took his both hands in hers’ and lifted them up between the two of them.

“No more of this,” she said sternly, shooting a pointed glance down at his splinted fingers, and then turning it back up at him. “Please, try. For me.”

Anakin met her glare with a quiver, but his answer was a comparatively sobered, “I will.”

Satisfied, Padmé wrapped her arms around him and drew him down into her arms. Her heart returned to racing as he sank against her and burrowed his face into her shoulder, exhaling a shuddery “thank you” into the crook of her neck.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps as another (though wholly unnecessary) “thank you” for her failed alternative meditation experiment, a slightly more upbeat Anakin informed Padmé later on that day that he would be the one making dinner for them that evening. Padmé had been skeptical. But when faced with Anakin’s reemerging exuberance, couldn’t bring herself to dampen his fragile mood by asking him how he expected to cook a whole meal with half his fingers broken.

In hindsight, keeping her objections to herself had been prudent of Padmé, because the answer turned out to be quite well, with the added help of the Force.

Which made sense, the more she thought about it. Of course Anakin would have no trouble balancing a paring knife in his lopsided, three-fingered hold. Of course he could churn out perfectly diced peppers, in spite of his handicap. Of course cooking is another one of his Force-given natural talents. Of course it’s something he can do with ease, even with four of his fingers out of commission. Of course it is. Of. Course.

This is not to say that Padmé is envious, of him. No, of course she isn’t. On the contrary, she's awed.

With the index and ring fingers of his dominant right hand both broken, by all laws of anatomy and physics, Anakin shouldn’t even be able to hold the knife upright, much less actually use it. But if not for the fact that she’d splinted Anakin’s fingers herself, Padmé wouldn’t even be able to tell he was working under a disadvantage. He made it look that easy, that mundane. It felt like she was watching some mystical sleight of hand. A hat trick she could see done right in front of her face, but she’d be damned if she could figure out how the magician pulled it off. It occurred to Padmé then that this must be the true power of the Force; obscuring the fantastic behind boring, every day tedium.

Padmé feels especially lucky to have such a good vantage point.

Perched on top of the counter, right between the cutting board and the spice cabinet, she is in the perfect spot to both watch Anakin work and steal scraps off the cutting board, while occasionally make herself useful by handing him whatever herb or seasoning he needed next.

At first, he’d been a little put out by her insistence on being in the kitchen with him while he made dinner. He wanted to surprise her, he’d pouted. He was making something special. She’d pouted back, and batted her eyes and told him that she was almost positive he was a better cook than she, and that all she wanted was to watch him to see if she could pick up on a few of his tricks. The flattery worked, needless to say. But in truth, Padmé’s reason for wanting to be in the kitchen with him was less out of a desire to learn new culinary tips, and more that she was wary of leaving Anakin alone in a room full of sharp objects, given the incident this afternoon. But he didn’t need to know that.

Besides, now that he was over his initial disappointment, he seemed to be having as much fun with this arrangement as she was.

“Try this,” he said suddenly, holding out a fork with a thick strip of what Padmé would guess was sautéed bantha out for her (In an effort to retain some air of mystery, Anakin refused to tell her what exactly it was he was making. But judging by the array of rich, pungent smells permeating the kitchen, it was definitely something very, very spicy. Padmé couldn’t wait).

She opened her mouth and let Anakin slide the fork in. Pulling off the piece of meat with her teeth, she let it roll around in her mouth for a bit to allow her senses time to absorb the shockwave of flavor hitting them from all sides. Hoping that she might be able to discern what the exact spices used were, and in the process, give herself a hint as to the dish Anakin was making.

“You won’t be able to guess,” he smirked. Knowing at once what she was up to.

“I’m not trying to,” she said petulantly, running her tongue along the corner of her cheek where the last of the morsel was now resting. “I just want to savor it is all.”

Anakin rolled his eyes and slipped another batch of peppers and herbs into the frying pan to cook alongside the meat. “Yeah, okay. If you say so.”

He set the cutting board back down and went over to stir the broth simmering in the saucepan on the opposite burner. With him occupied, Padmé leaned over and watched the meat, onions, and veggies continue to brown and sizzle in the pan next to her, doing her best not to let the delicious scents wafting off the food tempt her into dipping her fork in and eating everything straight out of the pan. As if sensing her distress, Anakin looked over, caught her eye and winked.

“Won’t be much longer now,” he said, with a slight laugh at her expense. “It’s almost done.”

Padmé leaned forward with an exaggerated huff, and stuck her chin in her hand in a dramatic philosopher’s pose. Then sighed again, sending Anakin a pleading look. He gave her a fake scowl that quickly crumpled as he broke out into laughter again. She joined him. Mother Goddess, did it feel good to hear him laugh.

“How did you get so good at this,” she asked offhandedly, once she had sobered.

He frowned, confused. “Cooking?”

“Yes. I can’t imagine cooking lessons are apart of the padawan learning curriculum, and before that you worked in a junk shop.”

“Oh,” he said sheepishly, turning back around to stir the sauce. “This was my first job.”

“Cooking?” Padmé said skeptically.

Anakin shrugged. “Well, I guess technically it was my mother’s job, before we were sold to Watto. But I was too young for my own work in those days so I just got lumped in with her and the other kitchen slaves. Our station was meal prep. I used to help her with peeling, and cleaning up the scraps that fell on the floor.”

Padmé frowned. Dreading the answer to the next question she was about to ask. “How old were you then?”

Anakin looked up at the ceiling, as if struggling to remember back that far. “Three? Four? Not sure, really.”

A lump settled down in Padmé’s throat, and she grimaced. To think she’d chalked his culinary experience up to his Force sensitivity. Her callousness shamed her. She should have known better.

Padmé must have been broadcasting her feelings on this new development quite loudly, because then Anakin quickly said. “It really wasn’t really all that bad. It was sort of nice, actually. Mom and I got to spend all our time together in those days.”

Appreciative of both the fact that the sentiment was more than likely genuine, as well as that he was telling her this to make her feel better about his rotten childhood, Padmé did her best to cooperate.

“Once you were…” she paused, looking for another word to use instead of ‘sold.’ “Moved to Watto, did you two still have time to cook together?”

“Sometimes,” Anakin said. “That was when I started to get really busy with work, though, so not as often.”

A sudden thought occurring to her, Padmé grinned and asked, “So is what you’re making for us tonight a dish the two of you used to cook together?”

Anakin cocked his head to the side. “Oh, no,” he said with a dry laugh. “Not for ourselves. We never had food this nice. This is something we used to make a lot for Gardulla, when she would have dinner parties.”

Possibly sensing her heart sink at that revelation, he then hastened add, “Mom was such a great cook, though I never felt like I was missing out on too much—”

He cut himself off in an unsuccessful attempt to smother the hitch in his voice. With a muffled sniff, he tried to discreetly scrub at his eyes before continuing on over the lump in his throat.

“She could make a meal out of anything, and it would taste just as good as whatever fancy dishes the owners were having…”

A thick cover of sorrow blanketed the room as Anakin trailed off again. Padmé could feel it settle over them both even without the ability to feel the living Force. Cursing herself for bringing the topic up in the first place, she made to apologize for spoiling the mood. But just as she opened her mouth, Anakin cut her off with a desperate look.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice edged with poorly reined frustration.

Padmé hopped down off the counter and came over to his side.

“Whatever for?” she asked softly, reaching out to run her hands along his arms comfortingly.

“I shouldn’t be bringing this up. It’s in the past. I—“

“Ani—“

He brushed her off, seemingly not having noticed her.

“I can’t help it, though,” he said miserably. “I miss her so much, especially now that she’s—. But every time I think about her, I want to cry. Even when I try to remember only the good things. It still hurts.”

Padmé didn’t know what to say. Both sets of grandparents were gone by the time she’d been born. The most personal experience with loss she’d ever had was losing Cordé a few days ago. And while that had been painful, and a part of her was still grieving her fallen handmaiden, that was nowhere near as devastating as the loss one’s mother. Especially with the way Anakin had lost Shmi.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she began slowly, bringing her hands up to cup Anakin’s face. He sank into the touch, his eyes welling up as she ran the pads of her thumbs along his cheeks. “I know I keep saying this, Ani. But it’s the truth. It’s natural. It’s natural to cry and to be angry and to be hurt when you lose someone dear to you. You’re in mourning for your mother. Every memory you have of her is probably going to make you sad for a while. Even the good things.”

His face went stony, and he made to pull away again. “I shouldn’t remember her at all, then.”

Padmé pulled him back. “No! That’s not what I’m saying at all—”

He shook her off and turned back around to the food on the stove. “I can’t be like this,” he said harshly. “There’s no point. She’s gone. She’s dead. I failed her. I should just get over it. I should—“

“Stop,” Padmé said. Gently, but loud enough to cut across his tirade. He stiffened, his hands clutching the edge of the stovetop. She came up behind him and pulled them down to his sides, then wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing herself into his back.

“Stop it,” she said again. “Remember what we talked about before? About it being okay to feel things, even when what you feel is bad?”

“You’re the only person who thinks that,” he grumbled, shaking his head stubbornly.

Padmé started, totally thrown. Had they made no progress at all today? “I promise you, I’m not.”

He sighed. His weight seemed to sag forward as he bent in toward the sauce he was still pretending to monitor.

“I’m just so tired of feeling everything, Padmé,” he whispered brokenly. “I just want it all to stop.”

Padmé tightened her hold around him, bringing him closer into her.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t stop, Ani,” she said sympathetically. A little heartened when she felt his hand come up to clutch her’s closer to his abdomen. “Not ever. But it does get better. I promise you.”

“ _You_ make it better,” he said, abruptly spinning around to face her. There was a desperate, almost manic glint in his eyes as he stared down at her. Adoring and grasping, making her heart race as he pulled her to him. “You’re the one person who does.”

Padmé swallowed thickly, wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing his head down so that their foreheads were touching.

“I’m glad,” she said, relieved at how steady she’d been able to make her voice sound. “I meant what I said earlier. You can tell me anything. I’m always here for you.”

Anakin closed his eyes and leaned in further, lightly bumping their noses together. They were so close now, Padmé could feel his next words before he even spoke them, the whisper they came on brushing against her lips like a phantom kiss. Hot and heady, bursting straight through her; melding every single muscle in her body together until all that was left was a lumpy mass of smoldering magma held in place by a crusted shell of chilled bone and ashen skin.

“You’re the only one who is,” he breathed into her. And the shell was cracked.

Fisting her hands into the lapels of his tunic, Padmé thrust herself up onto the balls of her feet and crushed their lips together, sending the two of them stumbling back against the kitchen counter. Wedged between her and the cabinets, Anakin let her take the reins, lifting her up against him so that she didn’t have to fight for leverage. She rewarded him by plundering his mouth for all it was worth. Nipping and sucking and sliding along his puckered lips as he moaned into her, using his teeth and tongue to wordlessly beg for more. Just as eager. Just as greedy.

She broke away suddenly, needing to catch her breath. Anakin tried to follow her, dragging himself along by the skin of their barely bound lips. She stalled him, silencing the whine curdling in his throat with a quick peck. Then motioned for him to set her down. He complied, and without even thinking about it, she brought him down with her for another, longer kiss. Then pulled away, swaying back on her feet. Her head still spinning as she looked up to gauge Anakin’s reaction.

He stood before her, breathless. Bruised lips parted and panting; waiting, doubtful. Fearful. It took Padmé seeing the question in his eyes for her to figure out what for. Then she remembered.

_We shouldn’t have done that…_

A doleful look crossed Anakin’s face, and he ducked his head. Embarrassed, he made to side step her to go back to the stove. She threw out a hand against his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He looked down at her, quizzically. Waiting for her to dictate the next move, as he’d done throughout this entire ordeal.

Padmé faltered.

Continuing down this road would be foolish. She knew this. Once this assignment was over, they would be forced to go their separate ways, perhaps never to see each other again given the paths their respective careers were leading them down. And what then? Anakin couldn’t take another loss so soon after his mother’s death. It would destroy him. And to destroy him would destroy her as well.

But to reject him now, for the second time, and after having been the one to initiate intimacy between them in the first place, that would just be a similar brand of cruelty, would it not?

And besides, examining this situation from a different angle, what was it exactly that she stood to gain from continually denying them both what they so badly wanted? More rigidity and regulation? More political masks and pretense? Hasn’t she had her share of that? Hasn’t she sacrificed enough in the name of duty and propriety? Hasn’t Anakin? Haven’t they both given enough of themselves to earn something back in return, for once? Something that could be just for the two of them. _Between_ the two of them, and no one else, even if it lasted only until it was time for them to go back to their lives. However long that might be.

Selfishly, Padmé thinks that would be enough. Better than having nothing at all, anyway.

They’ve yet to hear back from Obi-Wan since he left to track the bounty hunter. By now, he would have made it to the Outer Rim, which means he is more than likely deep undercover. In other words, incommunicado for the time being. Factoring in how long it could take Obi-Wan to return to Naboo from the Outer Rim once he did finally catch the bounty hunter, Padmé estimated she and Anakin could have at least another standard week alone out here together.

A week. Alone. Together.

The possibilities flit through Padmé’s mind like scenes straight out of some pulpy holodrama, leaving her vision dazed and her pulse flaring; and an understanding etched behind in its wake. She can’t hold it off anymore. This thing she and Anakin feel for each other, it’s too big, too strong to be constrained for much longer by petty little hurdles like propriety and ethics. No, it has to be tamed. And this is how.

A week is just a week. No more, no less. And yet it will be more than enough for her. For them. More than enough time for them to exorcise whatever this was out of their systems. Get it out in the air between them, so that he could see—so that she could see—! Well, see whatever, really. Anything was possible, and they had a whole week to find out, after all. Whatever happened during that time, they would sort it out when Obi-Wan returned. But for now…

Padmé stepped forward, threw her arms around Anakin’s neck, and for the fourth, but most certainly not final time that night, claimed his lips for herself.

 

* * *

 

The raw, unleaded pleasure that consumes the soul upon giving in to temptation is inversely proportional to the cold misery it's forced to endure when resisting it.

That is to say, the next several days pass for Padmé and Anakin like something out of their wildest and most closely guarded fantasies. A vibrant, technicolor daydream made real, if only for the moment. But oh, do they make every second hold for an eternity.

The night of their kiss, they make a nest of blankets and throw pillows on the floor of the balcony overlooking the gardens, and have dinner out there, under the stars. Discretion completely thrown to the wind, they shamelessly feed each other by hand (as is custom on Tatooine, according to Anakin), whilst gazing up at the stars and swapping stories of the many misadventures they’d had during their ten year separation. They spend the whole night out there, talking and cuddling and kissing. Until morning comes, and they wake to find themselves tangled in a heap of pillows and limbs; too overcome by their shared giddiness to care at all about anything so base as impropriety.

Thus is the tune set for the remainder of their time together. Capricious and quixotic and freewheeling, as neither of them have ever been in their lives.

They take her father’s old speederboat out onto the largest lake in the region. Where Anakin has entirely too much fun at the helm, zig zagging them around tiny islands and through flocks of indignant waterfowl, until he nearly capsizes the vessel while trying to jump a sandbar. After which, Padmé is forced to boot him from the driver’s seat, and he responds by scooping her up and tossing her into the water, demanding a race. She gets him back by utterly annihilating him—seven times in a row, and he sulks for the rest of the day. Padmé is merciless in her gloating, giving herself an added excuse to kiss that pouty look off his face.

They disguise themselves as peasants and take trips into town. On their first, Padmé is pleasantly surprised to find all the old novelty shops from her childhood still open and thriving, along with a few new useful additions. Anakin graciously indulges her resulting shopping spree, never once complaining as she fills his arms with parcel after tote bag after package. But he does object rather strongly when she buys him the model starfighter kit she catches him ogling through the window of a craft shop. Jedi aren’t allowed material possessions, he reminds her sullenly. Padmé concedes this, and offers to keep it for him at her apartment on Coruscant. Anakin accepts without much further need for prodding. The hopeful implications of her offer tacitly ignored by the both of them.

They go for picnics in the shaak fields, and watch the herds graze. And when Padmé teases him about the time he tried to ride one and fell flat on his face, Anakin does it again, just to see her laugh.

They pop popcorn and waste a whole afternoon watching the Holonet’s coverage of the Pixelito Classic on Malastare. Much to Padmé’s amusement, this quickly devolves into five hours of listening to Anakin savagely rip every contestant’s podracer to shreds (“I built a better racer than that at nine, what is Kolbron even DOING with that hunk of junk?!”). To which she simply chuckles, kisses him, and shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Repeatedly.

They have dinner by candlelight—both at home, and at restaurants in town. The wait staff at one is so taken with the two of them and the way they feed each other bits of their dessert between kisses, they wind up getting two more on the house.

They can’t go two minutes without touching. Literally. Two is their limit. Padmé’s tested this; when she goes too long without holding Anakin’s hand or running her fingers through his hair or giving him a quick peck on the cheek (lips, forehead, shoulder, neck), she starts to feel like she’s drifting. Like her entire body is splitting apart, atom by excruciating atom. It would be embarrassing to her, that she’s in this deep, if not for the fact that she knows she isn’t here alone. For Anakin, though, it’s different. Touch means something on Tatooine. It’s a statement. A challenge. Blatant theft. Your body belongs to your Master, you have no right to decide what you’ll do with it. A kiss? An embrace? A declaration. Open defiance, however inconsequential it may seem to the casual off-worlder. Because of this, physical expression is to the slaves of Tatooine an act of highest love. Padmé says she understands when Anakin explains this to her. But she doesn’t, truly. She can never. Only when Anakin cradles her face in his hands, and shines worshipful, adoring eyes down on her (Padmé. Not the Queen. Not the Senator.) does she come close. After all, what is this they’re doing, if not an act of defiance in its own way?

They have long nights and lazy mornings. Under correct circumstances, Padmé can talk anyone to death, and she remembers Anakin as having been much the same when she’d first met him. But perhaps the requisite solemnity of monastic life has curbed that habit some. In any case, he indulges her. They lie awake in bed at night and talk for hours about everything and nothing and then some, until their voices crack and their eyelids start to droop. And even then, they keep going. There’s just so much they have to say to each other (and so little time to say it in). On more than one mortifying occasion does Padmé wake with her head pillowed on Anakin’s chest and her mouth open mid-sentence, a tiny puddle of drool pooling beneath her. Anakin, bless him, doesn’t even bat an eye but to ask what she’d like for breakfast.

They are delightfully domestic, as if they’d had years to hone their routine (Instead of days, minutes, hours, to get it all in. To have each other, fully, before the real world barges back in). Anakin cooks while Padmé plays taste tester. Padmé reads the news while Anakin meditates. Anakin gets dressed first so he can help Padmé with her hair. Padmé lulls Anakin into a too-bored-for-nightmares sleep with the full details of her last Senate Budget Committee meeting. And so on, to the point that neither of them can scarcely imagine how in the galaxy they’d ever gotten this far without the other. They fit. They’re perfect (And it hurts).

They want a family. Deeply. Desperately. In ways that are separate yet similar, but that are evident to the other without either of them having to voice them. In the way Padmé buys out the entire children’s section of every boutique they visit with presents for Ryoo and Pooja. In the way her eyes trail after every mother and child pair that passes her by on the street. In the way Anakin guiltily burrows his face into her breast when he cries for Shmi. In the fragile yet trusting look he gives Padmé when she assures him—yet again—that grieving the death of a loved one is in no way selfish or something one should ever feel ashamed of. They want a family, and they want each other. And it should be oh so obvious where they go from here. But, alas.

They’re on borrowed time.

They know this, and they deny it every day. Except it doesn’t feel like a denial. It feels right. So very right, playing out this extended scene from someone else’s life, Padmé can almost picture it as theirs’. As though this fantasy they’ve run away with could become their reality. As though their break from their real lives never has to end.

But end, it does. Cruelly, with a brief comm from Obi-Wan they receive one night after getting back from watching a fireworks display down by the lake.

“Anakin, Senator, I’ve located and dispatched the bounty hunter and have set course for the Core. ETA as of right now is approximately twenty-six standard hours. Let’s rendezvous at the transport station just outside Theed palace. Kenobi out.”

 

* * *

 

Reality closes in around the bubble they’ve sealed themselves inside; cold, bleak, and poised to bulldoze straight through all of their meticulously erected barriers. But true to form, Padmé and Anakin go down swinging.

When Obi-Wan’s message ends, they leave Anakin’s comm where it is and head off to their room to get ready for bed. Completely undaunted, as though there’d been no disruption at all in what has become their nightly ritual.

Keeping up the game is only too easy when they’re still a full twenty-six hours out from facing Obi-Wan and consequence. Twenty-six hours is, of course, a far cry from a week, but it’s long enough to stretch. Put differently, they have one hundred-eighty thousand, seven hundred precious seconds left to languish in before it’s all over. Why waste them entertaining thoughts of What will happen when…? The hypotheticals and the definites are out of their hands now. What will be, will be. All they can do for now is live in the moment, and accept the fallout when it comes.

Or so Padmé would love to be able to convince herself.

But as she settles into bed beside Anakin, the very first thought that clouds her mind is how much colder her nights will be from now on, without him there to snuggle up to.

And lonelier, without the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest to steady her.

And duller, without his mother’s old stories of desert spirits and krayt dragons to fall asleep to.

And Emptier.

Not just her nights. Her whole life will feel—will _be_ that much more empty without Anakin there to fill the unnameable, irreplaceable space he’s made for himself beside her. The truth of that isn’t one she can outrun. Nor can she simply pack it away until later when it’s safe to let it sink in. When ‘later’ comes with Obi-Wan, she and Anakin will be forced to part ways, and that will be it. Forever.

They can lay here inside their last twenty-six hours together and block out the outside world all they want, but the end will still come. And then what?

_And then what?_

And then they pack up and go back to their lives and pretend like nothing ever happened. That this was just another perfectly normal protection assignment and she and Anakin share no deeper connection than bodyguard and client. As is expected of them.

Ridiculous.

It seems so patently ridiculous that this will be all they get of each other. For good. And yes that had been the point, initially. Her plan, to have a quick fling and be done with it, as she had with all of her other one-time-only lovers. But she hadn’t been expecting Anakin. How natural it would feel to let him in. How easily he would just…fit. As though he were right there all along and all she had to do was look over her shoulder and see.

And soon he wouldn’t be there.

But did it have to be forever?

They could still see each other, right? Anakin is a padawan learner for right now, but he’s above the age of majority. That means he’s allowed to have friends outside the Temple, correct? And even if they couldn’t exactly visit each other, the Jedi and the Senate work so closely together. There will still be Senate functions and peace talks and…and…

No. Thinking about it, that won’t do at all.

Furtive glances from across a ballroom floor? Impromptu trysts in dark alcoves, poking their heads out between kisses to check and make sure no one’s coming?

Definitely not. At her age, Padmé’s beyond that.

She wants something stable. Something real for once in her life. She’s allowed that, right? After giving her childhood and adolescence to the public, she’s allowed something for just herself. And Anakin especially. After everything he’s been through, he is perhaps even more deserving than she. And he, at least is brave enough to chase after it.

Padmé decides then that she can be just as brave.

She wants, and does it feel good to admit it. She wants. She wants. _She wants_ …

“Padmé,” Anakin speaks up suddenly, breaking her from her thoughts.

“Yes, Ani, what is it?” she says, lifting her head from his chest to show he had her attention.

He scrunches up his face and looks down, turning his head to the side, the way he always does when he’s about to say something he thinks will upset her.

“Would it…be alright if,” he breaks off for a second, steeling himself. “Maybe, after we return to Coruscant, I could…come to call on you from time to time.”

He pauses briefly, to give her time to process what he’d just said. Then, growing restless at her lack of response, picks back up. “Not every night, of course. I know you’re quite busy, being a senator and all. But I was thinking. Maybe…I could still make dinner for you sometimes. I mean I know you have your handmaidens for that, of course I know you don’t need another—I just—I could make enough for them as well, you know, if you were comfortable with me—I know it’d be an intrusion but, maybe I could—“

Padmé cut him off with a face-splitting grin and a finger to the lips.

“Ani,” she says slowly, devilishly savoring the way his pupils dilate and his lips wobble the longer she drags out her answer.

“Let me do you one better.”

 

* * *

 

It was by no means an ideal wedding.

Their only guests are Artoo, Threepio, and the Holy Man, who had to practically be browbeaten into marrying them on such short notice. As with funerals, weddings on Naboo are traditionally quite the production. That there would be no pre-wedding feast, no procession, no wedding party, no reception, and no other family or friends in attendance had earned them no shortage of narrowed eyes and pitying looks from the village’s only priest. Padmé, being the traditional girl she normally prided herself on being, could have had the decency to at least look embarrassed at the old man’s obvious discomfort with having to perform the ceremony under such unorthodox circumstances, had that not been the point.

It was by no means an ideal wedding. Neither could it be called anything resembling proper in accordance with the traditions Padmé had been raised under and was socially obligated to uphold as a former head of state.

And that was precisely what made it perfect, for her; Padmé, the woman. Not Amidala, the state figurehead.

Her wedding had been improper and impulsive and reckless and rushed and romantic and perfect. It had been her and Anakin seizing control of their lives and acting on pure, selfish instinct for once in their lives. For something they wanted, because it was theirs’ to want. For them, and only for them. Which made it all the more fitting that they be the only witnesses to it, aside from their droids. Their love, their marriage was for them and about them and between them, and only them, and would stay that way, forever. Perfect.

In the spirit of politeness, the priest is invited to stay for dinner after the ceremony is finished, but all parties involved are relieved when he rather gruffly declined and made a hasty exit shortly thereafter. Anakin and Padmé were down to a measly ten hours, and they had no desire to share them with any intruders.

Night had fallen by that point, and so they had their last dinner in paradise by candlelight in the sunroom. Anakin made her favorite Tatooinian dish, which they shared in a fidgety silence. The two of them utterly failing to hide their excitement over what was to come afterward.

Anakin finished first, and waited none-too-patiently until he saw Padmé’s plate cleared; then promptly stumbled out of his seat and over to her side, offering a trembling arm to lead her up to their bedroom. She took it with a playful eye-roll. The formality was pretty superfluous at this point, but leave it to her husband to make a show of things, regardless. Padmé had no problem humoring him, Anakin’s over-the-top melodrama was one of his most endearing qualities. But as they continued upstairs, she began to wonder if she’d read his intentions correctly.

Anakin remained stiff and twitchy the entire way up to their room. Never once returning any of her smiles, or even so much as glancing in her direction. He kept his eyes peeled straight ahead, his jaw clenched tight. Nearly flinching away from her when she went to hug at his arm. It left Padmé feeling more than a little disheartened. Apparently, she’d misread Anakin’s behavior during dinner and tonight wasn’t going to go the way she’d anticipated after all. A cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as her brain went into overdrive trying to force her heart to accept the rejection.

It wasn’t until they’d arrived in their bedroom, and Anakin summarily dropped her arm and shuffled away from her; retreating into himself with his head pulled down and his hands wringing behind his back, that Padmé realized she had it wrong. Again. It hadn’t been giddiness, and he wasn’t rejecting her. He was nervous.

She let out an audible snort and smacked her palm against her forehead, but quickly sobered when she heard Anakin draw in a sharp breath. He was looking down at her now, tamed and expectant, hands still tucked neatly behind his back. He steeled himself as she approached him, taking more of the slump out of his shoulders and doing his best to smooth over the grim line welded onto his face.

Tentatively, she reached behind him and tugged one of his hands free, then took the other as it swung listlessly at his side and brought them both up to her lips to press soft kisses against his recently healed knuckles. Holding them to her chest, she turned her gaze up to Anakin’s, willing his eyes to stay on hers’. To see her, as he has for the entirety of their time together. He leaned in, closer, and closer until their foreheads were touching, then pulled his hands free and brought them up to frame her face as he leaned down to gently brush his lips against hers’.

Padmé pulled away after a few seconds, once she felt more of the residual tension in him unravel some more. Stepping back, she brought her arms up and around his neck, brushing her fingers against the soft hairs at his nape and bringing them around to run the pads of her thumbs along his cheeks. His head bent toward hers’ again, and he was heavy in her palms, his gaze tender but clouded. She brought him in for a second small, chaste kiss, then eased him back. He went meekly, and waited, his eyes now staring fixedly on a spot behind her head. Padmé turned and followed them, breath leaving her lungs when she noticed for the first time the scene she had missed upon entering the room.

Their bed, laid out with a heart-shaped wreath woven with lilac carnations and pale pink peony blossoms, framed by red and violet rose petals which were scattered all along the bedspread.

Beautiful. It was absolutely beautiful. Padmé almost wanted to cry.

Briefly, she recalled explaining the intricacies of Nabooian flower language to Anakin one afternoon as they were taking a stroll through the gardens; she hadn't realized at the time that he'd been paying such close attention, to craft a message so intricate.

_'The gift of your love has granted me new life. I am yours, eternally.'_

Her heart leapt into her chest. Speechless, she turned back around to face him. Anakin looked down, a deep blush coloring his cheeks.

"I don't have anything to give you except myself, Padmé,” he said with a small, self-deprecating grin. "Admittedly, that isn't much. But all the same, everything I am belongs to you, forever."

Still too choked to form words, Padmé threw her arms around his neck and swept him down for a searing kiss which he returned with matched fervor.

"Anakin, you're all that I could ever want," she whispered breathlessly after they’d parted. He gave her a tiny, almost timid smile, his eyes once again planted on the bed behind them. She pulled his gaze down to meet hers’, her brow quirking knowingly. His ears pinked and he looked down again, taking an unconscious step back toward the bed. Padmé reached out and tilted his chin back up, asking with her eyes the question she needed answered before they took this any further. Without a second’s hesitation, he nodded once. Then stiffened, waiting for her to make the next move.

Gingerly, she slid her hands down from around Anakin’s face to his shoulders, and slipped them beneath his Jedi robe, sliding it off in one swift motion and letting it rustle to the floor in a heap. She looked back up at Anakin to gauge his reaction. Finding his expression unchanged, she continued; tucking her hands up underneath his inner and outer tunics, pulling them over his head and tossing them on top of his robe. She settled her hands on his hips and felt him tense for a second—only a second—but long enough to give her pause until she received a short ‘go ahead’ nod, before hooking her fingers inside the waistband of his leggings. Keeping her eyes trained on his, she slowly slid them down his hips, shorts and all, until they landed on the floor at his feet. Then took a step back to, for the first time, take all of him in.

Though the two of them have shared a bed for almost the entirety of their time together it had all been chastely. That is to say, until this very moment, Padmé hasn’t actually seen Anakin fully naked once. The full view was a lot to take in for the first time.

Eagerness suddenly back with a vengeance, Padmé turned her back to him and swept her hair over her shoulder. Catching her meaning, Anakin came forward and began undoing the ties and fastenings holding up the gown and helped her step out of it. She kicked it away from her and with a mischievous smirk she couldn’t bear to hide, “seductively” pulled off her brassiere and panties; bursting out into giggles halfway through as Anakin’s face once again flushed crimson.

Her nudity seemed to make him more aware of his. Rather than staring at her, he was looking down at himself. Disparaging; another tight frown twisting up his face as he folded his arms across his chest, curling in on himself, as though completely oblivious to how beautiful he was. He flinched away when Padmé reached out to trace the fleshy scar along the left side of his torso—one of many scattered across his body. She’s felt them all before when laid up in bed beside him, but has never seen them in the light. To someone else, they may have been blemishes or imperfections, but to Padmé they were beautiful, physical evidence of all that Anakin has survived throughout his harsh life. All the pain. All the hardship. And how, in spite of it, here he was, still alive. Still so brave and selfless and gentle-hearted, loving those close to him with his entire being. Her brave, brave Jedi Knight.

Padmé continued trailing her fingertips up across his abdomen until she reached his chest, and let her hand rest over his heart; her own sinking a bit as she felt his hammering away beneath her palm. She let her hand lay there for a moment to give it a chance to settle. It beat faster, his chest heaving along with it as his mouth flapped open and closed in a muted stammer. Again, Padmé brought her hands up to cradle his face, bringing his forehead down to rock against hers’.

“Ani,” she said delicately. “If you’re nervous about tonight, we don’t have to—“

“I’m not nervous,” he tried to assure her, despite the bitter twitch at the edge of his grin. “I know how this goes.”

It was a good thing her boy was so good with his lightsaber, because he has a terrible sabacc face.

Sensing her hesitation, Anakin took another step back toward the bed, once again visibly steeling himself. Puffing out his chest and rolling his shoulders back, he splayed his arms out and threw up another twitchy grin, quirking an eyebrow and cocking his head to the side in a cheeky “come and get me” pose. Padmé allowed a short laugh at his antics but held to her reservations.

A long second passed, and Anakin deflated, taking more of her resolve with him. That pout of his would be the death of her, but Padmé couldn’t bear to wound his pride like this, not tonight of all nights.

Okay.

“We’ll take it slow, alright?” she promised, reassuring them both as she came forward and wound her arms around his neck. Anakin nodded mutely, a strange and flaccid calm settling over him as he let her guide him back toward the bed.

He went down jerkily when they reached the edge, but quickly steadied himself as she moved in on top of him; his hands coming up to brace her hips as she straddled his lap and leaned herself up on her knees to seal their lips together. He moaned into her, hot and panting as her tongue slipped past his lips to delve into his mouth, tasting, exploring; loving the little confused squawk he made when she left him to trail butterfly kisses along his jawline.

Her knees beginning to ache, she guided him down onto his back, her heart quickening as she took him in, her beautiful husband splayed out before his devotion message. A sudden rush of pride ran through her at the sight; he was hers’. All hers’, now and forever, and here was the proof laid out for her to read, plain as day. Beneath her, Anakin twitched, whimpering softly, adorably, sensing her excitement. The reminder of him being able to feel every sensation passing through her sent a delighted shiver down Padmé’s spine all the way to her core, and she rolled her hips against him, the friction from the coarse hairs at his navel dragging a sharp gasp from her as a telltale wetness pooled in the space between them.

 _Not so fast,_ she scolded herself.

Remembering her promise, Padmé eased up from her spot, and dipped down to once again fuse her lips to Anakin’s in a sweet, gentle dance, before drifting over to his cheeks, and then his jaw, slowly making her way down his neck and collarbone, where she bit down, loving the little yelp that sounded from his lips, his entire body quivering beneath her as she laved her tongue over the bite mark.

Sitting up for a moment to admire her handiwork, self-satisfaction immediately became worry as Padmé caught sight of the expression on Anakin’s face. His eyes were screwed shut, kiss-swollen lips parted and panting; heavy, wet gasps rattling up from his heaving chest. Padmé frowned.

“Is this still alright?” she asked softly, leaning over to cup his cheek.

“Fine,” Anakin grunted. “Don’t stop. Please. Please don’t stop.”

Padmé bit her lip, concern giving way to full on discomfort. “Are you sure?”

“Please,” Anakin nodded fervently, his words choked out over the lump hitching up his throat. He jerked his head away from her and shifted part of the way over onto his side, burrowing half his face into the mattress in a last-ditch effort to hide the tears just beginning to leak past his eyelids. “Please…”

His voice broke off on the strangled edge of what Padmé, out of pride, wasn’t yet ready to call a sob.

“Ani…?”

“Please,” he said again, a mantra now. “Please…please…”

“‘Please’ what?” Padmé demanded, sharper than she intended, panic edging into her voice. “Was I taking things too fast? Do you need me to stop?”

Anakin shook his head violently.

“We can still do this,” he pleaded. “We have to—Please, please, I know how to…“

He trailed off again and made to bury his head further into the mattress. Padmé caught his shoulder and turned him back over. Stubbornly, Anakin kept his head cast to the side, refusing to even face her direction.

“Anakin,” Padmé said firmly. “Look at me. I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me what’s going on with you.”

Anakin didn’t respond. At first, Padmé was worried she had been too harsh again. But then finally, he turned up to look at her.

“Please,” he said in a small voice. “I don’t want you to stop. Everything’s fine, really. Better than fine. This is the best it’s ever been.”

“I can’t do this while you’re crying, Anakin,” Padmé said urgently. Then, backpedaling, said, “Wait, you’ve done this before?”

Anakin brought his hands up to cover his eyes, and nodded.

Padmé took a moment to digest this new information. Earlier, he’d said he “knew how this worked,” but she’d thought that had all just been cheap bravado. She should know better by now, Anakin is nothing if not genuine.

“I’m sorry,” Anakin said again. “I’m ruining this for you.”

“You’re not,” Padmé said, calmer than she felt. Anakin didn’t seem to have heard her.

“I wanted tonight to go perfectly,” he wailed. “I know you were disappointed about how today went. I wanted tonight to be perfect. I wanted it to be perfect, and I ruined it. I ruined it. I ruin everything…”

“Anakin stop,” Padmé said over him, doing her absolute best to keep her voice and demeanor calm and level. There was so much to unpack here, she didn’t even know where to begin. She took a deep breath.

“You said you’ve done this before,” she began carefully, deciding to start with the first thing.

Anakin nodded.

“With whom?”

He squirmed. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Padmé went cold. Something sour settled in the bottom of her stomach. She couldn’t leave it there, but she knew better than to press him. She would have to go a different route.

“Well how many times have you…?”

He squirmed again, and began rubbing furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I don’t remember,” he said blandly. Then, “Not very often.”

The sour feeling in the pit of her stomach rose up to settle in the back of her throat, and she began to tremble. She had to swallow several times before asking her next question.

“Do you remember how old you were, your first time?”

Anakin winced _. “_ I don’t want to talk about it. _”_

 _Well I need to!_ Padmé wanted to scream. But this wasn’t about her. Except that it was, because obviously in her eagerness, in her ignorance, she’d done something to upset him. She was his wife now, she had to know what that was. She deserved to know. But she knew Anakin well enough to know she wouldn’t get anywhere trying to bully it out of him.

She rolled away from him and off the bed, and went over to the nightstand. Reaching into the bottom drawer, she pulled out the box of meditation crystals and found the aquamarine. Then moved back over onto the bed, where Anakin still lay with his hands covering his eyes. She crawled over to him, pried his right hand away from his face, placed the crystal in his palm and folded his fingers over it.

“Talk to me,” she begged softly.

Anakin blinked up at her, startled, then rolled onto his side, away from her. Padmé heaved a heavy sigh.

“Ani, you’re scaring me,” she said quietly, hoping that by being open she could get him to reciprocate. He didn’t respond. Didn’t even budge but for the visible shudder that rippled through him. “If I ask you some questions do you think you could answer them? Just a ‘’yes’ or ‘no’.”

He didn’t answer. Padmé pressed on.

“Did it happen while you were a padawan?”

No answer. His head lifted up slightly in a half shake of the head.

Bile rose in Padmé’s throat. She swallowed thickly. “On Tatooine,” she guessed flatly.

Anakin nodded.

Padmé’s eyes burned. She squeezed them shut, taking several deep, uneven breaths. Alright. In the forefront of her mind, she’d known this was the more likely answer. But having it confirmed felt like a sucker punch to the gut. Like someone had opened the escape shaft of her ship, and she’d been sucked out and cast adrift in deep space. Weightless, breathless, and chilled to her marrow. There was so much she had to say, so many questions she had to ask, but she didn’t know where to start. Or if she even should.

The space between them grows and goes hard and uncomfortable as the long silence drags on, neither of them able to break it. Until at last, Anakin began to speak.

“Sometimes,” he said in a flat voice, his back still turned to her. “During dry season, when the shop wasn’t doing too well, Watto would have me pick up the slack.”

Padmé moved over to Anakin’s side, and began rubbing his upper arm, bidding him to continue.

“He’d take me down to the cantinas, and we’d just wait around, and if someone came by and asked for me and they could pay upfront, he’d let them hold me for a couple of hours.”

Tears sprung from Padmé’s eyes, a sob burned in the back of her throat. She smothered it. This wasn’t her time to cry. She continued rubbing Anakin’s arm, waiting for him to go on.

“Watto always made sure they weren’t too rough with me, though. Because I still had to be able to work and all, and he couldn’t afford to fix me up or replace me. And afterward, he’d give me and Mom extra rations for the week. He was good like that.”

“He wasn’t good,” Padmé snapped bitterly, unable to hold back any longer. “He wasn’t good at all, Ani, to force you to do something like that. Surely you have to see that. It was wrong what Watto and those other people did. All of it. Please, tell me you know this.”

Anakin’s head shook again.

“We all would have starved if I hadn’t,” he said. Padmé had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming. She couldn’t believe her ears. Couldn’t believe that Anakin would try to justify what those monsters did to him. Couldn’t believe he would try to bargain with her, wheedle her into to agreeing with whatever twisted logic had been drilled into him by his former owner.

“That’s no excuse,” she said, furious. A poor choice of words, she realized as soon as they left her mouth and Anakin went rigid, pulling away from her.

“I disgust you,” he said despondently.

“Never!” Padmé cried, reaching over and pulling Anakin over so that he was now flat on his back, leaning over him so that he had to look at her as she said this. “What happened to you disgusts me. What Watto and what those monsters did to you disgusts me. You, Ani, you could never disgust me. Nothing about any of this is your fault.”

She leaned back and took a deep, steadying breath, letting her eyes close. Unsure if she could bear to look at him when she asked the question that had been gnawing at her gut since this revelation had come to light.

“But Ani,” she began slowly. “I know this is selfish, but I have to know. Tonight. Does—does being with me make you think of—“

“NO!” He shot up so fast their heads nearly collided. “No! Never! Never! You’re nothing like them, don’t ever think that, ever!”

Padmé nodded. Her eyes stinging again, this time with tears of relief. She pushed them back. Not yet.

“But then I don’t understand,” she said. “Why were you crying earlier?”

Anakin shifted. Padmé noticed the hand holding the crystal clench, the knuckles whitening. He looked down at it, rolling it over in his hand.

“I can feel you,” he said. “When you’re all…excited. When we’re like this, and you’re kissing me, on top of me, I can feel how good you feel, how good I’m making you feel, and I…”

He trailed off, swallowing thickly.

“I could feel them, too, and I _hated_ it. I _hated_ making them feel that way. But you’re different. I love you. I love making you feel good. I want to make you feel good. It makes me so happy. It’s the best feeling in the world. I…I didn’t want you to stop.”

Padmé took a moment to let that sink in, as she ran the night’s events over in her head. Anakin’s stiffness as he’d led her to their room. The way he’d held himself once they’d arrived, slack and demure and waiting, always waiting for her to make the first move. Waiting for her to undress him. Waiting for her to lead him to the bed. Waiting for her to initiate kisses and touches while he lay beneath her, silent and unmoving and waiting.

Padmé felt sick.

“But did you want it, Anakin,” she said quietly, already knowing what his answer was, and terrified to hear it from his lips. “For you?”

Anakin’s brow furrowed. “I told you, I want to make you feel good. I love you, Padmé.”

She gave him a tiny, pained smile. “I know that, Ani. But sex isn’t all about one person’s feelings.”

Anakin shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter to me as long as you’re enjoying yourself,” he said earnestly. Obliviously. “You can do whatever you like with me, Padmé.”

The words shot through her like a blaster bolt, and her vision blurred, just as everything she’d been blind to before came zooming into focus.

_You can do whatever you like with me_

_What can I do? I’ll do anything you ask_

_Everything I am belongs to you, forever_

Padmé dropped her face into her hands and moaned inwardly. All this time, she’d been so blinded by affection and giddiness, she hadn’t seen what he’d been doing. Had _he_ even seen? At this point, was it something he did consciously or was it just natural to him? Padmé was sick. _She was sick_. What had even been going through her head as he’d told her all those things? That he was being sweet? Awkward? Romantic? Melodramatic? Never that his meaning could be literal; driven by behavioral instinct hewn into his spirit from birth. A leftover scab wound he kept peeling open and letting fester. A wound she, too, in all her lovesick blindness, kept picking at.

There was no excuse. None at all.

“I can’t do this tonight,” she said dully into her hands. “I don’t think I can do this at all.”

“You can’t do what?” Anakin demanded, the manic tremor in his voice telling her he’d skipped panicked and angry and had gone right to desperate. “What did I say? What did I do? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Padmé. Don’t say that! Don’t say you can’t do it, please! If you say you don’t want me anymore, I’ll die, I know I will. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. I-I won’t cry anymore, I promise. Now that I know how much you hate it, I swear I’ll never do it again. Ever. I know I make you uncomfortable sometimes, and I swear I’m trying to stop, but I—“

Padmé silenced him with a finger to the lips. He pushed back like a spring, ready to launch back into his tirade the second she let go.

“Anakin, I don’t feel comfortable with us having sex right now,” she said calmly. “I need time. I think we both do. So let’s wait for now. Alright?”

He nodded mutely, as she still hadn’t taken her finger off his lips.

“Another thing,” she said. “And this is most important. People aren’t objects. You aren’t a thing for me or anyone else to make use of and dispose when we get bored with you. You’re a person, a free person, and you don’t belong to anyone but yourself. I know you may not completely understand why I’m telling you this right now, and that’s okay, because I’m going to help you understand. Do you know why that is?”

Anakin shook his head.

“Because we’re married,” Padmé said, a tiny grin spreading across her lips as she said the words aloud for the first time. “Husband and wife. We’re family.”

 _Family_ , Anakin mouthed the word against her fingertip. She nodded in confirmation, and took her finger back as Anakin’s mouth curved downward into a small frown. He worried the crystal back and forth in his palm, pouting like a schoolboy working out a difficult arithmetic problem in his head.

“So we can still be married, then?” he asked trepidatiously, the nervous tremor back in his voice.

He looked so completely troubled as he said this, Padmé would have had to laugh but for the fact that that he even felt he needed to ask her that question was a problem, and she had to treat it as such.

“Yes, Ani,” she said, grinning still, in spite of herself.

“And we can still kiss?”

“Yes, Ani.”

“And we can still sleep together?—I mean sleep-sleep. Not, you know.”

“Yes, Ani.”

“And I can still cook for you, and you’ll still watch podracing with me, and I can still brush your hair at night and help you get dressed in the morning—when I can get away from the Temple, that is.”

“Yes, Ani.”

“Because we’re still married.”

“Yes, Ani.”

“Because you still want me?”

He looked down at his lap as he asked that last question, too afraid of what her answer could be to face it head on. It broke Padmé’s heart to have him doubt her feelings for him. That she had ever made him doubt them. That all this time, she’d been so sure they were on the same frequency, when clearly, she couldn’t have been more wrong.

Anakin’s head was still bowed, but his eyes kept darting up at her furtively, hopefully. Padmé smiled, and lifted his chin up with the tip of her finger and brushed their lips together, gradually deepening the kiss as the uncertainty on Anakin’s end ebbed away and he returned in kind. Then, at last, she pulled back, so that their lips were still touching, but no longer locked, and whispered, “Always,” into his mouth. He grinned into the word and kissed her back.

“Good,” he said, breaking away. “That’s good. Because I really love you.”

Padmé rolled her eyes. “Really? I might have guessed.” Then, realizing something, added, “I love you, too, Ani.”

He lit up brighter than the biggest billboard on Coruscant. “You do?”

Padmé would have rolled her eyes again if not for the fact that, in all fairness, this was the first time she’d actually said the words to him, and that now that they were out, she was dying to say them again.

“I truly, deeply, love you, Anakin,” she told him softly. “I always have.”

“I know,” he said, beaming from ear to ear. “I could feel it, I think. But I wasn’t sure.”

He blushed, the smile on his face dimming a little with his returned bashfulness. “Would you say it again?” he asked timidly.

“I love you,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“Again?” he asked.

“I love you.”

He was back to beaming now; Padmé hasn’t seen him shine like this since the day he won the Boonta Eve Classic, and she decided then and there that the rest of her life would be devoted to making sure that look never left his face.

“I love you, too,” he said. “You knew that already, but it just feels so good to tell you so. I haven’t been allowed to tell anyone I loved them in so long. You’re the first person I’ve been able to tell since Mom. So I love you, Padmé. I love you.”

The sincerity in his admission made something in Padmé break for him, and she knew that this would be another issue they would have to work through together some other time. But not now. This was a happy moment, she wanted them to savor it.

“I love you, too, Ani,” she said, before leaning in for another kiss. “And I’m going to have to insist that from this day forward, you tell me you love me every single day for the rest of our lives.”

“I will,” he vowed solemnly, before throwing himself at her, just about crushing her with his full weight as they fell back against the bed cushions. Padmé tumbled into giggles, and let him sink into her.

They lie awake together the whole rest of the night just like that, wrapped up in each other’s arms, relishing the feel of one another; the joy of their union, and of their love. Savoring the last few hours they had to bask in the safety of their blessed haven in the Lake Country, before it was time to tear away the invisible veil and go to meet Obi-Wan, and resume their respective roles and duties.

When morning comes, they rise with the sun and have a nice, long shower together, take their time helping one another get dressed, and then reluctantly make their way to Theed.

Obi-Wan is already there at the transport station when they arrive. He’s so busy scolding Anakin for being tardy, he misses the fact that they’d been holding hands before they noticed him standing there. Or so Padmé hoped, for her husband’s sake.

 

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 5\. There's pasta in space, don't fight me on this. 
> 
> 6\. Yes, even our beloved Queen Padmé is capable of Pinterest fails. She can't be perfect at EVERYTHING, guys. 
> 
> 7\. I honestly don't know what this fic is. Once upon a time, I wanted to write a fic where Anakin Rage Quit the Order, then this happened. The Rage Quit IS coming, but first I had to set things up. I hope you all liked it. If not, well, this whole thing can go the way of "Menace" and we shall never speak of it again. 
> 
> 8\. Again, I AM working on Ch 5 of WSABH and Ch 2 of First Day. I mean it. I have the documents open and there are words on both pages. They're happening as we speak, I promise. SOMETHING will be updated by Friday. And something ELSE will be updated by Sunday. 
> 
> 9\. I love you guys. Thanks for being so patient with me. <3


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